


(multiples of) three.

by Star_less



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Adopted Tony, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Baby Tony, Character Death, Complete, Creative License, Cross-Posted on deviantArt, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute Kids, Desperation, Drabble Sequence, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hangover, Howard Stark is an asshole, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark at MIT, Kid Tony, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Not Canon Compliant, Omorashi, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts at MIT, Platonic Relationships, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Slice of Life, Stuffed Toys, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Feels, Tony is a little older in each story, Tony is at MIT, Tony's in public school, Tony-centric, Wetting, Whump, and so is his wife, and then he's not in public school, eighteen year old Tony, fifteen year old Tony, forty-ish? year old Tony, influenced by the comics ig, jarvis is a good papa, nine year old Tony, one shot turned chapter fic, platonic sharing a bed, quite where they are getting all this alcohol from I don’t know, six year old Tony, three year old Tony, tony is a toddler, twelve year old Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_less/pseuds/Star_less
Summary: "Hello, little one." Jarvis smiled at him. His smile was a little tight, and he let out a jittery laugh one too many times, but the boy didn't seem to mind. Encouraged by the fact that Tony hadn't yet started wailing for his mother, Jarvis continued. "How old are you?""Three." Tony told him in between thoughtful little chews on the tips of his fingers.Jarvis found himself biting back a chuckle. "Oh, well, goodness me," he spoke softly instead. "You're a bigger boy than I thought."Edwin Jarvis has taken up a position at the Stark household looking after the Stark's youngest - and only - son, Tony, which is a bigger learning curve than he'd first thought.(OR: Join Jarvis on his journey looking after the Stark's youngest-and-only child, right up until he's too big to be looked after any more by anyone, and perhaps that's just when he needs it most. Now with new chapters!)





	1. three.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Some of you may know me already, although this is my first time writing for Marvel stuff. Up until about, ooooh, 2016, I was one of those insufferable teenagers who thought she was 'above' nerdy superhero films. And so I missed all of the hype about Iron Man, and The Avengers, and what have you, and I missed out on years upon years of content. Shed a tear for me, please do. 
> 
> This fic is partly inspired by the scene in Iron Man 2 where Tony pees in his suit. I'm a sucker for that scene because he pulls one helluva beautiful 'pee face' that I swear must've been carried over from childhood... lo and behold, here it is. 
> 
> This fic was also, initially, meant to be attached to a longer piece of fiction about baby Tony, although I was finding that the fic wasn't really running the way I'd hoped it would. I've always, always come back to this particular piece of mine, though, I mean - not to suck my own tit or anything - but I really like it, and I think it could do with standing on its own two feet rather than languishing on my deviantART sta.sh, destined only for the recycle bin, you get me? 
> 
> Funnily enough - this story now has added chapters! I don't have an awful lot planned, mind you, perhaps three or four quick oneshots. These chapters aren't the chapters that were initially attached to this fic, they are all new writing. Lucky you!
> 
> Enjoy. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three. 
> 
> Tony Stark is three. He likes toy trains but he's not quite sure about the new butler.

When Edwin Jarvis first began his position as a butler to the Stark family, they made it very clear to him what his priority was. Howard Stark, for one, was a very busy man. It was natural for Jarvis to assume that he would be assisting with household duties, lifting the stress from (soon-to-be-former) housewife Maria. 

On first meeting the Starks, it became obvious that household duties weren't his only priority; in fact, they weren't even his most important priority. 

"This is Tony." Maria explained, shortly after she and Howard had politely introduced themselves - not that there was any need, seeing how Howard and Jarvis had been long-time acquaintances. Being somewhat close to the Stark family to begin with, Jarvis vaguely knew of the Stark's adopted son, Anthony. Contact fell away from Jarvis and Howard shortly before young Anthony's adoption process had been rolled out; this was the first time Jarvis was going to meet him. Goodness. He must be, what? Two years old by now?

Maria gestured down, toward the small child that was busying himself with the chiffon-y ends of his mother's skirt and attempting to hide behind her legs. It took Jarvis by surprise that he didn't look entirely dissimilar to his adoptive parents. He still had his baby fat, some chub on his cheeks, but otherwise he was a skinny slip of a boy.   
At the nervous silence from her son, Maria simply giggled. It was a slightly strained laugh, as though she wasn't comfortable with something. She urged the child forwards. "Tony," she pressed, her voice ever serene with only the slightest reprimanding tone. "Say hello."

Jarvis chuckled fondly. He kneeled down so that he was level with the young child - looming over the toddler would likely only scare him. 

He smiled as Tony blinked at him - slowly, as though he was merely studying the stranger standing before him; or trying to work him out. His eyes were big, brown and owl-like; as if he didn't quite trust Jarvis, perhaps. It took a little while longer, another timid glance at his mother (who insistently nodded) before the small boy offered up a quiet, lisped-out, "Hello."

"Hello, little one." Jarvis smiled at him. His smile was a little tight, and he let out a jittery laugh one too many times, but the boy didn't seem to mind. Encouraged by the fact that Tony hadn't yet started wailing for his mother, Jarvis continued. "How old are you?"

"Three." Tony told him in between thoughtful little chews on the tips of his fingers, sounding as proud of this fact as any three year old could. He said it as, 'thwee' rather than three, and Jarvis found himself biting back a chuckle. "Oh, well, goodness me," he spoke softly instead. "You're a bigger boy than I thought."

He took extra care to add a layer of mock awe to his voice as he said this, relishing the prideful look on the smallest Stark's face when he did. 

"This is Jarvis." Maria explained patiently to the toddler. Tony's attention was captured by his mother at once, gaze snapping upward to look at her. She looked down at him with a small affectionate pat to his hair. "He's going to be looking after you from now on. You two can play together. Won't that be fun?"

This news took a little while for Tony to process. The small boy looked back and forth between his mother and Jarvis, this new strange person. Tony wasn't sure if he would be very fun. He didn't look as cuddly as mama was, first off. His parents were always too busy to play with him anyway, even when he went up to them with his toy train in one fist and trailing a not-quite put together train set behind him - so playing didn't matter. Tony had learned very early that if he did play, he should play by himself, and be quiet, lest he upset Papa. Mama would sometimes (once in a blue moon) wheel his trains in little circles and say how very proud of him she was when she looked at all of his train set creations, but she never played. Tony was sure that Jarvis was not going to play either. What was the difference?  
~

To be entirely honest, Jarvis himself wasn't quite sure he could play with the small child. Children weren't exactly his forte. But, just as he was expected to help with preparing dinner, he was expected to keep the Stark's offspring occupied. The next day, at precisely 1:25, just when lunch had been eaten and dishes had been cleaned, Tony was growing antsy. He trailed after his parents as they disappeared from the dining room.

"Mama. Look." He pleaded, voice soft and plaintive, tugging at her skirt. He waved a little metal train toward her, undeterred as she attempted to shake him off and simply sighed coldly in response. "Not now, Tony. Go and play somewhere else."

Her voice was weary. 

Jarvis, in the midst of putting away the crockery, watched the toddler out of the corner of one eye. He seemed to gloss over Jarvis entirely, and disappeared off instead to his father's study. The room was too far away for Jarvis to hear; but judging by the toddler's dejected pouting as he drifted back toward the dining room only seconds later, Howard had also turned him away - before he'd even had a chance to get the question out, no doubt. Jarvis continued to watch the child as he plonked himself down in the nearest chair and started to push his train around the table, punctuated by occasional quiet 'choo choo' noises. 

"You know, Tony," Jarvis said casually as he stored the last dinner plate away. "I'm great at playing trains."

Aha. That got the little one's attention. Tony turned in his seat, squinting - that beseeching, judgey look on his face that was only ever perfectly held by three-year-olds. "Bet you're not." He said matter of factly. But he took a long time to turn back to his trains - seeming lost in thought as he turned one wheel around and around - and around once more. 

"I bet I am." Jarvis nodded. 

The toddler 'humpf'ed quietly and hopped down from the chair with a soft whump. "Prove it, 'den." He insisted, quietly. 

Jarvis couldn't hide his smile as he was led to the playroom by his new friend.  
~

Another thing that Jarvis didn't expect to be doing with the child... was potty training him. For some reason, it didn't cross his mind that the child may still have been in diapers. It wasn't until he had been thrust into playing (being plonked in front of an intricately looping train track that Jarvis was sure a three-year-old couldn't make) and moving trains up and down said track repeatedly for an hour, that he began to notice Tony was fidgeting. Fidgeting with such ferocity that the tip of his Pull-Up began peeping from the waistband of his shorts. Now that Jarvis was properly thinking about it, Tony had had two and a half cups of juice with lunch. Judging by the young boy's squirming, he had had one and a half cups too many. 

"Young sir," Jarvis tried, hesitantly. "Do we need to stop playing?"

Tony didn't respond to that, so he continued on. "I think you might need to go to the toilet." 

Tony looked up at Jarvis and whined unhappily, shrinking back and already shaking his head. One hand was squeezing a toy train tightly, never to be let go. The other had wormed its way to between his legs, where he was squeezing on with all his might. "No." He pouted stubbornly. 

"Oh, alright then. If you insist." Jarvis nodded, falling quiet. At least he understood. He let the toddler be for now and they continued their playing. Jarvis mindlessly pushed a train over a small wooden bridge. 

It toppled over - much to the amusement of Tony. The little boy squealed with laughter, face lit up with happiness even as he was leaning up to place the toppled toy train back onto the wooden track. But yet no sooner were his hands free of their position from between his legs, he was whining again. His squirming was a little more obvious now; going from a little fidget to shifting side to side. Jarvis looked at him once more, unable to bite back his amusement as he spoke up. "Tony, are you absolutely positive we don't need to stop?"

Tony was in the middle of shaking his head when clearly it all got a bit too much, and instead he nodded. "You.. you stay here. I go." he insisted. Before Jarvis could even attempt to change his mind, the child was up and out of the room. 

A minute passed at most. 

...Sighing as he stood, Jarvis set off through the house after the toddler. It wasn't right to leave him alone... Though, quite where the child could have got to was a mystery. Tony had been out of the room for less than a minute, and yet it didn't look as though he was anywhere near the playroom. Picking a hallway, Jarvis headed down, occasionally calling out Tony's name and poking his head around any doors or into toddler sized gaps. Nothing. The butler began to grow concerned, his calls sounding worried. "Tony?"

In response, the house was still. Jarvis may not have had much experience with children, but he knew not to ignore a silent toddler.  
Especially a silent toddler Tony.  
Or a silent toddler Tony who needed to use the bathroom.  
But still, it was silent. The only noise Jarvis could hear was the quick clicking of his shoes on the floor, and the distant tik-takking of Howard lost in his work. It was only when Jarvis had retraced his steps back to the dining room, pausing just outside the door, that another noise drifted to his attention. Another noise that sounded suspiciously like something dripping onto tile floor. A noise that Jarvis prayed was just the faucet that hadn't quite been turned off after lunch due to his carelessness. The butler opened the dining room door silently and stepped inside; and lo and behold who was hiding under the dining room table but one young Tony Stark. As if his hiding spot wasn't obvious enough, the small child was stood in what appeared to be a steadily growing puddle. Seemingly oblivious to his audience, the young boy's toes curled tightly against the tile and he sighed quietly. His eyebrows were raised in clear relief as the little stream continued to pitter-patter.  
How such a small child could produce so much was a mystery to Jarvis. It was - Jarvis realised with a slowly dawning horror - everywhere; running into the lines between the tiles and pooling in Tony's socks.

Jarvis was at a loss for words. 'Oh dear,' was the first - cleanest - thing he could think of. "Young sir," the butler eventually tried once the dripping had subsided enough, wrinkling his nose. "This isn't a very good hiding place."  
He hesitated. "It is also not a toilet."

Tony opened his eyes. He grinned, despite being soggy and soaked through, and reached up, hands outstretched. "Jarvis!"

Jarvis gave a quiet, weary-sounding sigh as he reached for the child and lifted him up, armpits first. Despite himself, he smiled fondly. "Let's go and get you cleaned up. 

They squelched off toward the nearest bathroom together.

(Jarvis got very used to whipping the toddler up by the armpits and speeding off toward the nearest bathroom whenever he saw him doing the tell-tale freeze-in-place and little raise of his eyebrows, right up until just a firm glare at the child would send him off to relieve himself

…and then all of a sudden he was much too big to be reminded to do anything.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really quite nervous about uploading this, as the MCU is vast and, as much of a fan as I am, it confuses me greatly. I haven't read the comics, so I am very sorry if everything is off kilter and OOC. 
> 
> anyway, if you've enjoyed this then I really, really do appreciate kudos and comments, especially since I'm not 100% on my Marvel fic. Any love toward this fic is greatly appreciated and means I'll be back with more in the future. :-)


	2. six.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six. 
> 
> Tony Stark is six, he's just started school and he doesn't like the bread with the bits in that Jarvis makes his sandwiches with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on giving this a few more chapters, but as I was writing my Mammoth Marvel Fic (look out for it soon, I hope!) I got inspiration to write a little something else, and so I did, and it fitted in perfectly here. When I get to the chapter in that fic that inspired this fic, I'll say so. 
> 
> As per the tags, this contains omorashi. If you're not comfortable, hit that backspace.

Six.

Tony Stark is six, and he’s just like every other six year old. He goes to school gap-toothed and returns home with a half eaten apple and a mushy banana in his lunchbox— oh, and an untouched (to the point of being pristine) ham and cheese sandwich on granola. Jarvis lovingly prepares the lunches for little sir every evening, and every 3:30 afternoon they return to him, mocking, in untouched and perfectly edible form. Tony sometimes stands and expectantly watches the butler as his lunch is inspected, rocking on his heels and giggling lightly when the butler peels back the metal jaws of the bag as though he will somehow get a sticker for, yet again, leaving his sandwiches uneaten. 

“A new record, little sir,” Jarvis murmured, patting Tony on the head as he drifted over to the food disposal to scrape the unsalvageable parts of his uneaten lunch into, “It’s been one whole month of uneaten sandwiches.”  
Sometimes, Jarvis is worried as to how that boy even lives; as he seems to live on a mix of air, yogurt and apple juice judging by the contents of his lunchbox. 

“Yucky.” Tony tells him nonchalantly, rocking on his heels quickly… a little more… desperate than usual. It’s… different, Jarvis can tell, to the rocking that usually appears when sir’s lunch is inspected.  
At the rocking Jarvis only raised a brow and tried his best to ignore the movement unless it got more intense, giving the young boy the side eye. “Oh,” the prim butler asked, “and why is that?”

Tony wrinkled his nose in only that way that six year olds could, and frowned. His hands travelled to the front of his trousers and squeezed lightly as he looked back up at Jarvis, shimmying side to side. “It has bits in.”

“The bread?” Jarvis clarified, even though he was painfully aware that the young sir needed to pay a visit to the toilet judging by all of his wriggling. Young sir has always seemed to have issues with his toileting, even when he was a small toddler. Howard had very much hoped that Jarvis would be able to, ‘stamp those issues out of him’, as ‘Stark men were strong,’ and as far as Howard was concerned Tony was, ‘an embarrassment’. Howard was also not afraid to tell Jarvis of his shortcomings at this mammoth task. Jarvis, on the other hand, found it disgusting that Howard would even have such an attitude, and thought it no surprise that the little sir struggled even now to contain himself.  
As Tony nodded, and Jarvis heard the first breathy whimpers creeping out of the child’s mouth, he kneeled down to Tony’s level. Tony’s own gaze followed; his eyes wide and owlish and steadily filling with tears. His hand did not move from where it rested at his crotch. 

“That’s alright. I will change the bread when I shop for groceries this week.” Jarvis explained. Kneeled at Tony’s level, the unmistakeable lingering scent of ammonia began to cling to his nostrils. It was a horrid, sharp, suffocating kind of scent - unmistakeable as to what had really happened. To spare Tony the embarrassment, Jarvis had gotten exceptionally good at keeping his face masked. “Young sir,” he asked smoothly, untying the boy’s shoelaces - they had been near enough trailing on the floor anyway - quite how Tony had gotten home without falling over himself, Jarvis was quite unsure. “Do you perhaps need to visit the toilet?”

Tony’s toes curled tight against the tiles. If possible, he seemed to bring himself in tight and small, the grip on the front of his trousers unrelenting. “Yes,” he mumbled softly, voice quivering. 

“When did you last go to the toilet, hm?” Jarvis presses, a firm hand coming to the small of Tony’s back and chivvying him off. Tony’s eyes overspill, and tears begin to trail down his cheeks - out of desperation, exhaustion, Jarvis isn’t quite sure and he isn’t sure Tony knows either.  
“Breaktime,” Jarvis manages to make out as the young child begins to cry — and grimaces as he realises that’s a whole four and a half hours ago. They have some sort of routine - that Tony must use the toilet every break time and lunch time while he is at school, and it is clear that the young sir has broken it.  
“Had ’n accident,” Tony chokes, although Jarvis doesn’t need to know that as the scent clinging to the tiny child is enough proof. 

“I know.” the butler cooed lightly, reaching up and dabbing at Tony’s soaked cheeks with a perfectly pressed handkerchief. “That’s okay. Let us get you to the lavatory before you have another one.”

Tony fidgets and squirms and whimpers his way to the closest bathroom, begging Jarvis not to leave him alone and resorting to sitting on the toilet and clinging on to Jarvis’ hand in an effort to keep him there. The young child is peeing before his bottom hits the seat and all the tenseness drains out of his body instantly, leaving Tony sagging and ‘ahh’ing softly in surprise. He did not realise he had to go just this much. 

“This is why you have to visit the toilet every breaktime and lunchtime, young sir,” Jarvis admonishes, his thumbs running trails over Tony’s knuckles. “Do you remember what happened when you were three?”

Of course he remembers; it’s a painfully rhetoric question considering Jarvis has had to recount the tale over, and over, and over again to the young child. It gains him gales of laughter with each retelling; even now, Tony is beginning to bubble with the first tentative beginnings of a giggle. “Yes!” He squeaks, shifting on the toilet seat. Finished. 

“I’m sure Mr. Kirkalder doesn’t want that to happen.” Jarvis murmured, earning another bubbling giggle from the small child.  
Tony shifts again, nods with some sort of reluctant agreement, holding his hands out. “Finished.”

“I can see that.” Jarvis lets Tony down, beginning to strip him out of his soaked trousers so that he can launder them fresh for tomorrow morning.  
Tony rubbed his eyes a little bit. “Can I go and play?” He mumbles at Jarvis plaintively, standing knock-kneed and naked in the middle of the bathroom. 

“Not naked!” Jarvis gasped, loading incredulity into his voice and flushing with pride as he gets himself more giggles, this time verging on hysterical. The butler gets Tony’s cotton pajamas from the rail nearby, freshly folded, and unfolds them. “It’s not bedtime!” Tony whines unhappily at the familiar sight of the blue striped cotton garments. Jarvis is quiet. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s not bedtime yet, but you can still wear these.”  
It isn’t long until suppertime, and therefore isn’t long before Jarvis takes Tony through his bedtime routine anyway, is how the butler rationalises it to himself. With a softly-spoken, ‘left arm’, ‘left leg’, ‘right arm’, ‘right leg’, it isn’t long before Tony is buttoned up cosily. Tony would argue that he was much too grown up to have Jarvis chivvy him through putting on his pajamas, but it had become so much of a routine for them that he didn’t quite mind. Buttons, on the other hand, were still tricky, and so he was quiet as Jarvis helped him with those. “There,” the butler smiled with a triumphant finality to his voice, “All done.”

“Play now?” Tony asked softly.

Jarvis nodded. Tony grabbed onto the butler’s fingers, held them in his tiny hand, and dragged him off toward the playroom, already gabbling that they were going to play with his trainset as they always did because ‘Jarvis was good at playing trains’.  
And so Jarvis eased down onto the floor of the playroom as he was so used to doing, a smile tugging the corners of his lips despite him grunting softly with exertion.  
Playtime had changed a little from what it had started off as when Tony was three; it had began with Tony too small and too unsure to engage with Jarvis, preferring to while away hour after hour after hour pushing trains up and down the track by himself. Nowadays, playtime had been reduced to a little over an hour and involved intricate storylines and Tony falling all over Jarvis calling, “No, push it over there! This one is going here!”, arms flailing, beloved red train clutched tight in one fist.  
This would go on for about seventy five minutes before Tony had his supper.  
Then he would have his evening bath.  
Then he was put to bed, ready to do it all over again the next day - all of it, right down to the detail, right down to every scrupulously scripted moment of playtime.

 

“Goodnight, young sir,” Jarvis mumbled as he watched Tony’s sleeping form, lowering down the lights so that it was dimly dark, yet bright enough for the young child to feel able to jump up and rush off to the bathroom or to Jarvis’ quarters should he need to do so. Tony had crashed into slumber at this point, pink lips ever so slightly parted as he slurred sleepiness back at the butler before rolling over and pushing his face into his teddybear. Jarvis chuckled slowly as he backed out of the room, fondness in every crease of his face-- despite the fact that on the way he nearly stood on a misplaced, overturned toy train which very nearly tore a very rude word from his mouth. Sighing, the elder butler bent down to pick it up. He did so, and returned to his thoughtful spot stood in the doorway - only now he had absent mindedly started to turn a wheel over and over as he checked over the sleeping child once more.

“I..." Jarvis turned the wheel again, chuckled low and velveteen to himself as tomorrow's duties swirled in his head - playing with sir's train set the most important duty of all, evidently. "I look forward to tomorrow, young one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, comments and kudos are appreciated but by no means necessary. I hope you've enjoyed this all the same!


	3. nine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine. 
> 
> Tony Stark is nine, and he is homeschooled and much too grown up for a teddybear.

Nine.

Tony Stark was nine, and he was homeschooled. He had been homeschooled at his father’s request for three years so far. Howard had pulled him out of public schooling at six, after Tony had walked home one too many times, trousers soaked through. 

“You are an embarrassment.” Howard lectured the first time Tony got caught out, his voice thundering over the tiny child as he jabbed his finger in Tony’s face. “You are a disgrace to my name. I cannot put up with this any longer.”  
Tony all but dissolved under Howard’s thunderous glare, tears pooling in his eyes never to spill - if they had, Howard would have screamed even louder. “Yes. Yes Papa. I know Papa.” the young child mumbled, the tip of his thumb pressing against his lip for comfort - never to breach the pink of his lips lest he be shouted at. His chin wobbled, making his voice quivery. “M’.. m’ sorry, Papa.”  
His voice slurred a little, his breath got caught in his throat, sobs tangling themselves up.

“I will homeschool you from now on, we will stamp this insolence out of you.” Howard told him, ignoring - or blind to - the cries. Tony wasn’t quite sure what ‘insolence’ was, but from the tone of Howard’s voice it didn’t sound like a good thing.

The next day, Tony’s homeschooling began. Homeschooling appeared to consist of Tony sitting at Howard’s large, clean white desk in Howard’s far-away study with all of Howard’s important work pushed aside. Tony was given a textbook to read for the first hour, and the second hour Howard had him working through math problems, which meant Tony alternated between flying through worksheet after worksheet or freezing up and nervously chewing his pencil, owlishly blinking up at Howard as he tried to weigh up whether he should ask his father for help.  
He didn’t.  
His tummy began to feel a little bit ticklish, and as he worked he began to press his legs a little tighter together and shimmy side-to-side. Then Papa said that he could have his breaktime now, so… so Tony put his pencil down and jumped down from the desk. Usually, break times at school meant he could get some fruit and some juice… but Tony wasn’t quite sure if he would get those if he was at home with Papa. Usually, break times meant that Tony should go to the bathroom like Jarvis asked him to, but Tony wasn’t sure if Papa would let him go to the potty either.  
“What do I do now?” Tony asked his father, nibbling his lip and digging his toes tighter into the carpet as the tickling from his lower tummy seemed to intensify. He jiggled on the spot. 

“Well..” Howard boggled, “It’s breaktime. What do you do at breaktime?”

“Snack and potty,” the six year old replied instantly, bouncing a little more constant now. His brows furrowed, and his little hands went between his legs… but Howard had spent so little time looking after his young son that he didn’t quite catch on. 

“Well, go and do that, then.” Howard waved him off ineffectively, “Jarvis will make you a sandwich or some yogurt. You have fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes was when the big hand on the clock was on the three and the little hand was on the eleven… and if he was any later Papa would be angry with him. Nodding, Tony shifted side to side to compose himself before running off toward the kitchen, tiny whimpers breaking free from his tightly-pressed-together lips the closer he got, even as the distance between the kitchen and the study seemed to unravel itself to get longer and longer and more far away. “Jarvis!” He called in a trembly sort of voice, trying not to think too hard about using the potty. “Papa says it’s breaktime.”

“I know, little sir.” Jarvis replied with a nod, trying his hardest to sound as if he hadn’t been clock watching and hadn’t already cut Tony a clementine alongside a fresh glass of milk ever since Tony had been ushered into his father’s study.  
“I have you a glass of milk and a clementine.” He told the small child, relaxing when the child nodded in approval and stepped forward. Tony settled into the chair in the kitchen and sipped at his milk, shivering at the sensation of the smooth icyness trickling into his tummy. He pulled his legs around one another and squeezed, as if he was trying to squish himself in as small as possible, like a tiny origami sculpture. Jarvis tried his best to look interested in the silverware he was washing, but gave Tony the side eye all the same. If he wasn’t mistaken, little sir looked as though he needed to pay the toilet a short visit. “Tony…” he began, a stern brittleness in his voice, the kind of stern brittleness that only came out when Tony wasn’t doing something he was supposed to be doing - or vice versa. “Shouldn’t you go to the toilet before you go back to working?”

Tony whimpered a little, shivered again, but shook his head. “No.” He decided instantly, nibbling on a clementine segment. 

“Are you sure, little sir?” Jarvis asked again, giving him a second chance. Still Tony refused, so Jarvis sighed and ushered him off with a wave of his hand. “Very well. I assume your father will want you back in his study. Off you go.”

Off Tony went, sat in his father’s too-big chair in the study once more and occasionally nibbling on his unfinished fruit. The icy cool milk seemed to puddle in the lowest part of his tummy, and suddenly the tickling felt a whole lot worse. Oh. Tony fidgeted, pressing both hands into his lap nervously. _Oh._ Perhaps Jarvis was right and he should’ve gone to the potty first…  
Biting his lip a little, Tony peeked hesitantly at his father as he placed a little circuit board in front of him, trying to judge whether Howard would let him get up so soon after break… only to become distracted by the colourful board, now with wires trailing over it. He squirmed and leaned forward curiously, taking the board in both hands and turning it over and over, trying to work it out. Silently, he looked from the board to his father standing above him. “What’s this, Papa?” He asked, in a silvery voice. 

“That’s a circuit board, Tony.” Howard explained, unusually patient; although programming and coding was something he was willing to discuss with Tony no matter what, as he imagined it’d be rather helpful for Tony’s future in Stark Industries. He swept forward and took the board in his own hands. “This is what powers the television, so you are able to watch all of those silly children’s programmes that you watch in the evening.” He explained. Tony’s eyes widened in interest and he leaned again, forward then back, legs still pressed together. “Even this one?”

“No, not this one. This one will power a lightbulb, should you put it together correctly.” Howard explained, earning a softly fascinated, “cool!” from the child. They worked slowly together for the next hour, Tony bent over the board with sheer concentration running in every dimple on his face, guiding the wires to their correct places. His tummy remained uncomfortably full throughout, so what had started off as intermittent wriggles was quick to turn into fully fledged squirming with Tony’s tiny hands beginning to tremble. Every now and then he had to push away the wires to press his hands a little tighter between his legs, earning a disappointed tut from his father. “Concentrate, Tony.” Howard instructed sternly. Again, he didn’t quite catch that Tony’s discomfort was due to his need to pee… in fact, it just looked like disobedience to him, as all of Tony’s misbehaving did.  
Tony whimpered a little. He… he was trying his hardest, he really was… but all the aches running along his lower tummy.. it hurt, and they kept pulling him away, and- and- and… well, the instinctive, _‘this… here? that.. there?’_ mantra that came so naturally to the small child was beginning to dissolve into a jumbled, childish mess of, _‘peepeepeepeepeepee!’_  
Still, he stubbornly persisted. The second Tony connected the final wire and saw the lightbulb explode into an excited light, he squealed and sat ramrod straight, relaxing as the whirring in his brain slowed down. “Papa!” He said, stepping his toes into the carpet. “Papa, I did it!”  
But Papa was unusually silent, and didn’t give Tony the joyous cry he was expecting. “Papa?” He repeated, voice tiny. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Howard asked slowly, oddly empty, in a tone of voice that Tony knew all too well - a tone of voice that indicated Howard’s patience was wearing thin and giving way to anger. The child frowned at the lit circuit board in front of him, puzzled. “I- I did it,” he repeated wetly, trying to claw back the lump rising in his throat that meant he was about to cry. _Did… did he do it wrong…?_  
“Stop that this instant!” Howard boomed, and it was only then that Tony registered the thin pitter patter noise of liquid pooling (then rolling off of) his chair. _Oh… oh no…!_  
Squealing unhappily as the dark stain spread over his trousers, Tony helplessly grabbed at the front of his crotch as though that would stop the liquid seeping through; looking panicked as the warmth streamed in thick lines between his fingers. He squeezed, trying to cut it off, and sobbed a little. “Papa, I- I didn’t mean to- I-!”

“Get out of my sight!” Howard spat, sweeping the board off of the desk. Tony trembled, ducking out of the way as he clambered from the chair, soaked through. Lost, with no idea what to do - his instinct made him long for a cuddle, although there was no chance of him getting one from Papa, and Mama had made herself scarce on Papa’s orders. Unhappily, Tony trailed toward Jarvis’ quarters, lip quivering.

“Tony?” Jarvis mumbled as he heard Tony appear in the doorway of his private quarters, though he didn’t look up. It was only when Tony did nothing in reply but sob that he tore his gaze from the newspaper he was reading to the young child, and his mouth dropped open. Young sir… looked downright pitiful. His hair was mussed up, his face was a mottled mess of pink and white, with angry, itchy tear streaks glistening as they weaved over his cheeks. His trousers.. they were soaked through, from the crotch all along the insides of the thighs, right through to his tiny socks. “Oh, goodness. What on earth happened, young sir?” Jarvis asked incredulously. Again, it was a painfully rhetoric question, but Jarvis was lost for words as he took in Tony’s soaked form. As Tony sobbed again - seemingly incapable of speaking - Jarvis rose to his feet and swept over to Tony’s side, putting a comforting arm on the small of Tony’s back.  
At even the slightest intimation of comfort, the smaller child melted back into Jarvis’ embrace with a whimper. “Accident.” He stated thickly, not that it needed stating. 

Tenderly, Jarvis shushed him, urged him forward toward the closest bathroom. “Hush, child.” He murmured, comfort stitched into his voice as Tony continued to whimper to himself. Jarvis could feel the young boy trembling incessantly against him, a motion that broke his heart. “We’ll get you and this mess cleaned up.” He insisted, unbuttoning Tony’s shirt slowly and easing him out of the soaked clothes, even though Tony was six years old and plenty grown up enough to do things like this by himself. Tony was on autopilot, simply continuing to whimper to himself. It was only as Jarvis buttoned Tony up into the cotton nightshirt that he cupped Tony’s tear streaked face. “Young sir, you are whimpering like a blessed cottontail.” He murmured, pursing his lips sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?”

Tony met Jarvis’ gaze, took in those trustworthy eyes, before tearing his glance away. “I want my teddybear.” He mumbled softly, toying with a loose thread hanging off of the sleeve of his pajamas. Howard had said he was much too old to be carrying a teddybear around, but he still had cuddles with it at nighttime.

“Teddybear and a cuddle.” Jarvis agreed, lifting Tony up into his arms and smiling thinly to himself as the small child burrowed into him as though he were a lifeline. Jarvis carried Tony through to his bedroom and settled carefully down onto the bed with him. Tony swiped the brown-furred stuffed animal sat lopsided on his bed and pulled it into his arms, burying his face into the chestnut fur with a snivel. Jarvis held Tony securely and… said nothing. The moments passed by in peaceful quiet, with Jarvis occasionally rocking the young child and Tony snivelling as the last of his tears dried. Jarvis patted Tony’s back, the slow rhythms lulling Tony’s eyes to a close. 

“Jarvis. What are you doing?”  
Howard scowled furiously as he burst into his son’s bedroom, fists clenched, jaw set, with a matching look of disgust that clouded his features when he saw Tony curled up in the butler’s arms with his teddybear - the sight only serving to ignite his rage further. “Tony pissed all over the floor in my study. I expect it cleaned and immaculate within the next hour.”

“Yes, Howard, right away.” Jarvis said, although he didn’t move from where he was sat with Tony, thanking every possible sky deity there ever was that the small child had stayed in a comfortable slumber. “I was just cleaning Tony up, his clothes are in the washer.”

Howard sniffed indifferently, glaring at his son. “He is much too old to be pissing himself as he does.” He said, though Jarvis hardly understood what exactly Howard wanted him to do about that. ‘Well, he is only six years old’ he thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud lest he be fired. Howard paced, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “And he is much too old to carry around such… foolish, childish items like these.” He added, spite dripping from his voice as he swiped the teddybear from where Tony held it in a vicelike grasp. Yes. That would teach him, that would teach him an immeasurable deal in learning how not to disgrace himself within his father’s company.  
The change was instant; Tony was torn away from his slumber with a reeling head, immediately beginning to whimper for his lost teddybear. Where… where did it go? He looked toward Jarvis, gaze near accusatory, wondering if he had dropped it on the floor or in bed somewhere. For a split second the small boy caught sight of his father and - his heart leaped - his beloved teddybear in his father’s grip. Eyes widening, he reached out with small starfish hands for the bear, blinking plaintively at Howard. “Teddy.”

Howard held the bear tighter; Tony frowned, dizzy with surprise, tears welling. “Teddy.” He repeated questioningly, and his voice came out tiny and choked with tears.

“It is about time you grew up a bit, Tony.” Howard told him snidely, and Jarvis could see the twitching of a smile beginning on Howard’s lips; almost as though he were enjoying it, it disgusted Jarvis to realise. “No more of these silly items. Jarvis will be overseeing your schooling from now on.”  
That was news to Jarvis in itself; he figured it wouldn’t have been too long before Howard tired of tutoring Tony, although he hardly expected him to throw in the towel after half a day. He nodded all the same and made a mental note to block off some time to overlook Tony’s school textbooks this evening. “Yes, little sir, you cannot have your teddybear while you are at school.” He murmured.

“I want my teddy.” Tony repeated, his tiny face crumpling. He didn’t get it. What had he done?  
Jarvis frowned, stroking his cheek. Tony was… a child. How could Howard do this to a child?! His own child, at that?  
He, rather bravely, cleared his throat.  
“Howard, he’s six.” He pleaded. “Could he not have the bear… perhaps once school has finished?”

“No, Jarvis, and I’d rather you keep your opinions to yourself in future if you value your position here.” Stark murmured snottily - and in that moment Jarvis decided that no, he didn’t so much value his position at the Stark’s, but rather their young son.  
“My son,” Howard slathered the words in thick, oozing anger, firmly putting Jarvis in his place, “needs to grow up and stop whining for these pathetic playthings. Now, you must clean up while Tony has his lunch.” He commented curtly before turning on his heel and moving out of the playroom with Tony’s teddybear in one hand, his shoulders back with confidence, shoes clicking smartly on the floor. Jarvis half expected Tony to break down into tears the second his father left the room; but he did not. Instead, the small boy buried his face into Jarvis’ neck to starve off the burning tears building up in his eyes… and then howled. It was… heartbreaking, harrowing, to hear Tony cry so - Jarvis felt as though a dagger had pierced straight through his heart as he heard those all too familiar choked sobs and hitched breaths. “I- I wan’ my teddybear p-please,” Tony hiccupped. His nose ran a little. Jarvis held Tony tightly in one arm and rose - ignoring the cold sensation of snot on his best clothes - moving off toward the kitchen. “I’m sorry, little sir.” he murmured, almost mournfully, “but it is lunchtime.”

Jarvis had no choice but to leave Tony to eat by himself while he was cleaning up the puddle Tony had created in the study. He had, of course, taken a sly look around the study desperate to believe that Howard wasn’t so heartless as to sling his son’s childhood teddybear into the trash, but realised with a heavy heart that there was nothing and resigned himself to mopping the wood floor until all traces of the puddle had gone and were replaced by something suitably floral. By this point, half an hour had passed. Jarvis swept out of the study and moved quickly toward the kitchen, where the brittle tones of one Maria Stark floated to his ears. 

“Tony, you have to eat,” she pleaded him softly; her voice much softer and sweeter than Howard’s but still holding the familiar edginess that punctured her husband’s. “Please, Tony. It.. it was just a silly teddy bear, you can’t be upset about it still? Daddy told you, you’re much too grown up for things like that now.”

Tony sobbed, and so Jarvis quickened and entered the kitchen. “If I may, Mrs. Stark,” he interrupted, kneeling at Tony’s level. He broke off a piece of Tony’s lunch - ignoring the ham sandwich in place of his dessert, a biscuit. Tony looked up at the butler with watery eyes, but slowly opened his mouth. He snivelled but - trusting Jarvis entirely - chewed.

And was silent. 

_“No, you most certainly may not. How dare you come in here and dictate to me how I parent my own son,”_ was what Maria wanted to say, but seeing her son magically silent and chewing made her reconsider. “What is it, Jarvis…?” She asked hesitantly, as prim as ever now that the frown had fallen from her face and the worry lines smoothed themselves out. 

“I… would like to know where sir’s teddybear is. I trust this would quiet him down tenfold.”

Maria met his gaze, and Jarvis could see how she hesitated between her son or her husband. The gaze fell.  
“Howard is getting rid of it.” she said after what felt like an aeon, her voice smooth and emotionless. Although, the fact that she couldn’t keep Jarvis’ gaze suggested otherwise. “I… I pleaded with him not to, but.. you know Howard, when he gets an idea in his head.” She laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. Fractured, even.

“…I could get him a new one.”

Maria’s gaze returned to Jarvis again and this time the thinnest ghost of a smile drifted onto her papery lips. “Oh, I- I think Tony would like that very much.” She whispered. “Don’t… don’t show Howard.” She begged. 

“Of course not.” Jarvis murmured, and Maria granted him an hour and a half’s leave.

 

**

 

“Teddy! Jarvis, you... you found him!”  
Tony squealed, eyes blown wide and glimmering with happiness as though it had set him alight. He ran forward for the teddy that Jarvis was holding in his arms and beamed, pleased, as the soft plush was pushed into his embrace. He buried his face into the fur and inhaled slowly, then paused. His nose wrinkled. “Teddy… teddy smells funny.”  
“Yes..” Jarvis looked a little jittery although Tony didn’t quite catch it. He fidgeted with his sleeve for a moment. “This… this teddy is… the long lost brother of your teddy.” He lied easily. “This was the teddybear that I had when I was a little boy of your age.” He smiled fondly down at it as an entire childhood’s worth of memories whizzed by past his eyes in just a second. “But I’m a much bigger boy than you, now, and I’ve run out of cuddles to give him. I think he needs some cuddles from you.”  
Behind him, Maria chuckled. She had to admit it was impressive; Jarvis’ childhood toy was an almost identical substitute for Tony’s lost one; from the glimmering amber-ringed eyes to the worn chestnut whorls in the fur to the faded and slightly fraying blue bowtie placed around the bear’s neck.  
Tony, meanwhile, seemed to accept this explanation easily and simply ‘oh’ed in response, giving the bear a loving squeeze. 

“If you would like, Mama can wash your new bear so it smells like your old one.” Maria offered softly. Tony looked up to her, gave the bear another squeeze, and shook his head. "No."

But, that was when Tony was six.  
Now Tony was nine and he still loved his bear, even if it smelled of… dust and pipe smoke and… old. He loved it because it smelled of Jarvis, and it reminded him of home, because Jarvis was home enough.  
Homeschooling with Jarvis went very well, too - much better than it had when Tony was being tutored exclusively by Howard. It went well because Jarvis always let him rush off to the bathroom if he needed to, even if he was in the middle of a science worksheet, provided he didn’t start mucking around. It went well because if Tony was having a little bit of an off day, he was allowed to sneak his bear into his lap and give it a few squeezes in between working out equations; although this was becoming a rarity as, in Tony’s words, ‘he really was getting too grown up for a teddybear’. It went well because no matter how badly Tony could flounder at a question he was never lectured, and instead the answer was explained to him in simple terms so he understood. But most of all, it went well because Tony loved Jarvis, Jarvis loved Tony, and Jarvis was home enough.


	4. twelve.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve.
> 
> Tony Stark is twelve and he likes to be the red man when he plays Candyland.

Twelve. 

Tony Stark is twelve and it is the eve before he goes off to boarding school. 

Boarding school; a decision made solely (and secretly) by Howard, something which strained the relationship between Howard and Maria, never mind Howard and Jarvis. They had been having many hissed, whispered and strained conversations with one another in the late hours while Tony was meant to be asleep, although Jarvis is sure that Tony knows something is the matter, can sense the tension bubbling even though at this point he’s not due at school for months; he is, after all, a clever child. 

“Come on, young one,” Jarvis murmurs tiredly one evening as he ducks into Tony’s dimly lit cocoon, smiling as he sees Tony on his knees in his pajamas putting that familiar red train onto a piece of track. Tony Stark is, according to said twelve year old, ‘much too old for baby toys like that’, although Jarvis questioned that declaration considering Tony wouldn’t quite give it up and many a time had Jarvis caught the young teenager adding all sorts of modifications to the toy late in the night when no one can see. “I rather think it’s time you head to bed, you can play with your train tomorrow.”

“It’s not, ‘playing’!” Tony mutters indignantly, jolting at his surprise visitor and jumping away from the deconstructed train track as though it’s on fire. “I’m experimenting with it.” He beams proudly at himself and shifts on his toes. 

“Young sir,” Jarvis checks his watch, even if he’s smiling, “It’s 1:30 in the morning. You can continue experimenting tomorrow.”

Tony whines a little, face falling, though he still continues to bounce in a way that makes Jarvis think he perhaps needs to make a quick detour before bed. “Five more minutes, please?” He groans, holding the train up to the light where Jarvis can see some messily tangled exposed wires poking out of it. “Pleeeease, look, i- it’s nearly finished!”

“You can finish it when you’ve got a clear head.” Jarvis insists gently. Tony is quick to lose fire; admittedly he is exhausted and now that he’s been pulled out of his own head he feels a certain pressure he has to pay attention to. Sighing, the young teenager leaves the toy train on his desk and shuffles toward Jarvis so they can both go through their bedtime routine together; Jarvis is surprised, but he puts a hand to the small of Tony’s back and leads him off. As Tony has grown into a young man, the butler has gotten used to letting Tony go through his bedtime routine by himself - he is old enough, after all! - unless Tony is completely dead on his feet or has been taken very ill. The fact that the teenager has tugged Jarvis to the bathroom with him suggesting that something might be playing on his mind; Jarvis says nothing as Tony takes a stand at the toilet, mindful to keep his back turned as he brushes his teeth and washes his face quietly, waiting until Tony is ready to speak. The thin sound of trickling subsides when he does; a small, piped up ‘Jarvis?’ that sounds remarkably much like the tiny Tony Jarvis is so used to looking after. Jarvis chuckles. “Yes?” He asks softly without turning to face the teenager, though it’s clear he has no shame. 

Tony hums softly, tucks in and shuffles to join Jarvis at the bathroom sink where he begins to brush his teeth and splash his face with warm water. “Dad wants me to go to boarding school, doesn’t he?” He says simply, looking mutely down into the milky whiteness of the basin. It was quiet in the bathroom, a silence painfully gathering as Jarvis searched desperately for something to say. There… was nothing. “Yes.” He sighed at last, voice soft and sympathetic. Not wanting to stir the boy’s anxiety any further, the butler squeezes his shoulder to chivvy him off to bed. “I wouldn’t worry too much, young sir, you have another three months before you need to be thinking of school.”

Nevertheless, Tony worries, even if he says he doesn’t. The butler and the young teenager share many more bedtime routines together, which slowly bleeds out into Jarvis tucking Tony into bed when his bedtimes grow later and later. July passes. August passes. Suddenly, Tony is appearing in the doorway of Jarvis’ quarters shifting anxiously and mumbling something or other about a bad dream, and so Jarvis finds himself stepping over a young teenager as he slides into bed. “Young sir, you really shouldn’t sleep on my floor,” he stresses, because heaven knows what it’s doing to the young teenager’s back, but Tony bites back with an awfully chipper, ‘I’m fine!’ that sounds only slightly anxious on the edges. He seems happy enough, and Jarvis lays in bed with one arm splaying off of the mattress as a little reminder to the young sir that he is right there. Each night, right before he drifts off, Tony smiles and gives the older man’s hand a happy squeeze. 

“At least share the bed,” Jarvis proposes sincerely as he rolls back the duvet, but the proposal is rejected night after night after night… until, naturally, the eve before Tony is due to embark on his journey into boarding school. 

*

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to share?” The question that has been said all too often is asked again, even though Jarvis was sure that Tony was going to decline. The butler snuggled deeper into his duvet as Tony sat on the floor next to him, legs folded in, fidgeting anxiously. He had bitten all of his nails down to thin stubs and his fingers remained in his mouth as he tried to bite off any further slivers. “Yes, please…”

Jarvis is taken aback, just slightly. His eyes widen. “You do?”

“Yes.” Tony whispered, hating how his voice came out thick as though he was about to cry. This was… the last chance he was ever going to get, so he was going to grab it with both hands. Jarvis understood; Jarvis always understood, and Tony relished in the fact that the butler didn’t ridicule him for wanting the comfort. No; he shifted over, moved the duvet so Tony could climb in — and only moments later was joined by the teenager.   
This was the closest physical contact the two have had in a long long while and Jarvis anticipated the pair of them - moreso Tony - feeling somewhat awkward; he shifted slightly to keep a minuscule amount of distance between he and the trembling lanky teen and then lay himself down. Tony did not; Tony sat, bunching the duvet anxiously between his fists. 

“Tony.” Jarvis murmured, watching the teenager through sleepy eyes. “You need to rest.”

“No I don’t.”

“Young sir…”

“No.”

“Little sir,” Jarvis’ voice comes out faintly exasperated, mostly concerned. “You need to rest. You have boarding school tomorrow.”

“I don’t WANT to go to boarding school!” Tony blurted breathlessly, whooping to get some air into his lungs because all of a sudden it feels like there’s none. A sharp breath goes in and comes out again as a sob; Tony squeezes his eyes tighter shut and keeps his fists on the duvet. “I don’t want to go away!”

“Little sir…” Of course. This has been brewing for some time now - too long, Jarvis thinks, because he has been waiting for an outburst like this. The butler sat up drowsily, and his large hands come to pull Tony close. “You will… you’ll have fun there.” He explained in a sweet, quietly-crooning voice. “It’ll prepare you amazingly for MIT, and their scientific laboratories and curriculum are amazing.”

“I don’t want to go away.” That same answer, still so emotionless. His eyes are wet but he couldn’t quite bring himself to look toward Jarvis.

“Why not?” Jarvis asked, genuinely curious. The atmosphere in the Stark home had never been great; there were times where even he, a grown man, relished the private time he got where he could read or sit and listen to himself think without being picked at; Lord knows how Tony, a hormonal hotpot, felt as he was picked at by both parents day in day out. “You’ll have a great time, you’ll be so grown up.” He reassured with a small chuckle of happiness, ignoring the flush of sadness that brewed low in his tummy for it would do neither of them any good for him to be hysterical.

“I don’t want to leave you!” Tony tearfully exclaimed, his eyes hot and wet. He started to sniffle in an attempt to hold back the tears burning in the corners of his eyes; a few dripped off of his lashes and ran down his cheeks. “I-I don’t…”   
Snivel. Gulp. Hiccup. Snivel. “…want to leave you behind.”

Jarvis sighed sympathetically, squeezing Tony close and mopping up his face with a rest handkerchief. “Little sir, you can come home at Christmastime and perhaps on weekends if your behaviour is good.”

“I don’t want to leave you behind.” Tony rasped thickly, having some trouble taking it in now that he had to face up to the fact after ignoring it for months. “I- I don’t… why are you sending me away. Why..? Why didn’t you say no? Why didn’t you tell him not to!” He near enough screamed, then gripped the duvet tightly in both hands and shot Jarvis a look of heartbreak. His breathing shuddered in his chest, suddenly anticipating the butler scolding him; to the point where he looked surprised as the butler closed his eyes and simply let it wash over him. “I know.” Jarvis crooned, his own voice tinged with upset. “I know, young sir. I… I tried so hard, your mother and I tried very much, but your father was insistent it’d be good for you. I think you will enjoy it once you’re there.” He promised, rubbing the knots out of the teenager’s back and smiling a papery sort of smile as Tony collapsed back against his embrace. “I only want the best for you, Tony.”

Tony let it fall quiet once Jarvis spoke, his words like some sort of magic antidote that soothed his stress considerably… although he still toyed with the duvet as though it was the most interesting toy in the world. “Oh.”   
More fidgeting. “I’m going to miss you.” He whispered softly, unable to meet Jarvis’ gaze. Jarvis doesn’t look directly at him either, but could see a blush rising on the apples of Tony’s cheeks - and the fact that Tony’s eyelids are growing heavy, dropping then opening as he very obviously fought off sleep to grab another couple of minutes with the butler. Jarvis moved his arm, cradled the teenager slightly so that they were both laying down. This time, unlike earlier, unlike the times previous, Tony doesn’t fight; melting back into the soft sheets and the warmth of the butler to his right.

“I’m going to miss you too.” Jarvis murmured affectionately, and it warmed something up in Tony’s heart although Tony wasn’t quite sure what; perhaps just the realisation that Jarvis loved Tony as much as Tony loved Jarvis, and that Tony wasn’t just being a hysterical teenager. Tony smiled at that, smiled and closed his eyes tight. Jarvis watched as the teenager’s eyes closed and slowly, his own eyes fluttered shut. He laid a hand on Tony’s tummy comfortingly; and they rested. 

Or tried to.  
Tony tossed. Then he turned. Then he threw the blanket off. Then he pulled it back. What was boarding school going to be like? What if he didn’t make friends, what if he failed all of his classes? What if he never saw any of his family ever again? Sitting up, Tony rubbed his head unhappily, as if he was trying to calm his whirring thoughts, trying to blink those ugly babyish tears from his eyes. Oh, he couldn’t cry again. What would Jarvis think?  
Jarvis…   
He watched Jarvis’ form laid next to him cocooned in the duvet and hesitated, listening to the butler’s breathing slow and even out. Tony chewed his nails anxiously, an ache in his heart telling him to wake the elder man. As another ten minutes dragged themselves by and his eyes started to pulse with exhaustion… Tony hesitated and nudged the butler.   
Jarvis snorted; rolled over.   
Brow furrowing, Tony nudged him again. Harder.  
Jarvis was just on the brink between sleep and wake when Tony nudged him, pulling him away from his hazy slumber. He cracked an eye open. Groaned. “Mmm?”

“I can’t sleep. Can we stay up a little longer?”

Jarvis sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Tony… I bet you haven’t tried.”

“I can’t sleep.” Tony insisted, already sat up with his hands in his lap trying to press away the uncomfortable wriggles of anxiety. “Little longer… please..?” He asks the form resting beside him.   
Guilt wells in him when Jarvis sits up with an exhausted groan, rubbing his temples and squinting in the dim darkness of the room, but Tony’s glad he’s awake all the same. He leans into the butler’s embrace lightly. 

“We can stay up for half an hour more,” Jarvis murmured as sternly as he could muster while he woke himself up, looking with aching eyes to the clock on his bedside table; 22:45. Tony is already nodding. “What would you like to do?”

“Don’t know.” Tony mumbled sheepishly.   
He rubbed his eyes; Jarvis could see through the thin strand of light that came into the room that Tony’s eyes were baggy. He sighs and smiles, and suddenly his voice is bright again, as though Tony is just three and has woken him for nightly milk and a fresh pull up. “How about a hot chocolate?”

Tony’s eyes glimmer; he nods. He hesitates, then, and Jarvis can see the words caught in his throat so he doesn’t get up just yet. “Go on,” the butler encourages, his voice velveteen and soft.

“Can we play Candyland?” The twelve year old asks quietly. 

“Tony, it’s nearly eleven…” Jarvis replies, voice tinged with sternness. He can’t help but smile as Tony remains undeterred, offering him a rictus grin. “Fine. Go and get it. As long as I can be green.”

“I’m red.” Tony agrees, darting off toward his bedroom. Jarvis shakes his head as he leaves to prepare the hot chocolate. No doubt he will be asked to stay home while Tony is ferried off to boarding school… so as far as he is concerned, if Tony needs to stay up for a little longer with a hot chocolate and a board game, then so be it. 

Plus, Jarvis can kick arse at Candyland, and everybody knows the green man is the superior victor while the red man cries bitter, bitter tears of disappointment. If Tony wants their (potentially last) memory of one another to be Jarvis absolutely annihilating him at Candyland, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too fond of this chapter. Don't know why; just... not feeling it.


	5. fifteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen.
> 
> Tony Stark is fifteen, going to MIT, and not quite sure he's ready to be a fully fledged independent grown up. Also, what's cooking?

Fifteen.

Tony Stark is fifteen, and you’d think he’d be well versed in ‘listening to his body’ by this point... but that’s not the case judging by the way his thighs rubbed together whenever he took even the slightest break from... whatever he’s doing sat at his desk. It’s summer, and Tony has finished boarding school for three months before he is enrolled full time at MIT. Glad to be home, the first place the young teenager sits is at his desk in what once used to be ‘the playroom’, now indignantly called ‘the workshop’, - and it is where Tony stays all hours as he tinkers with... whatever he can squirrel away from the house. Not everything is gone; Candyland remains, put high on a shelf where he will pull it out for Christmas, every Christmas, after dinner. His teddy bear is there too; he snuck it to boarding school with him and now it is back in its rightful place in a drawer in his desk, third from the bottom, the one with the broken handles, so his father won’t see it. His trainset is deconstructed, for he doesn’t spend hours playing with it any more, but rather repurposing it in his projects; some of the track is looped on the wall and the train that he has modified, a little guinea pig if you want to call it that, is set along it and speeds on as though it is a missile and not a child’s miniature locomotive. Good. The turbo engine works. 

“Tony.” Jarvis watched the teenager fidget from the doorway. His breathing came slower than usual, laboured. “I think it’s about time you take a break.”

“Five more minutes.” Tony mumbled distractedly, scooting to the edge of his chair and pressing his legs tighter together as Jarvis seems to remind him of the pressing need he’s ignoring. “How are you feeling?”

“Yes, I’m..” Jarvis can’t speak for coughing, and his words get caught in a nasty chesty bark, but Tony is happy to wait. The teenager shifted to face the elder, putting both hands in his lap when Jarvis continued. “I will be fine when I’ve taken my medication.”

Tony nodded, insistently, as he knows perfectly well how disgusting cough linctus is but yet something in the back of his mind is telling him that Jarvis is… not quite right and he doesn’t want to - can’t bear, even - think about the outcome should Jarvis not take his medication. 

“What about you?” Jarvis smiled a thin teasing smile as Tony fidgeted, toying with some component he’d created. “Shouldn’t there be… something you should be doing right now?”

Tony’s eyes widened and he shot up from his chair, a hand running through his messy locks. “Shit, I have to pack!”

“Pack..?” Oh, yes, the young sir was leaving for MIT in a few short days; Jarvis had been trying to put that out of his mind, but still it crept ever closer. “Oh, yes, you do need to pack, but I was thinking—“

“Wait, wait wait. Hold that thought.” A wince crossed the teenager’s features as he darted from the room. It fell silent, Jarvis biting back a smile as he heard the all too familiar noise of the bathroom door slamming shut; his talent in knowing Tony inside out was something he felt rather proud of. The butler, coughs wrenching themselves up from his aching lungs, sat himself atop Tony’s bed and waited patiently with his hands folded into his lap for the teenager to return. He did only a matter of moments later, appearing in front of Jarvis in two lengthy strides. “Hi. Here.”  
Tony chirped, holding out the bottle of cough linctus with Jarvis’ name printed on it in illegible doctor’s script. “Take it.”

Jarvis groaned, looking wearily at the thick glass bottle. “Young sir, I…” the question of, ‘do I haaaaaave to?’ lingered in the back of his mind, something he had heard so many times before when Tony was a child - in fact, that question seemed to come to him in a whiny baby Tony voice. Yes… he knew he was being childish but… lord, was it a vile concoction… lord, did it make him gag so. He looked from the bottle and then toward Tony, who was looking back at him in a mix of concern and determination, and sighed. “It tastes disgusting,” he said softly.

“Don’t care.” Tony said as he folded his arms, and Jarvis chuckled despite himself because oh how the tables had turned. A cough tickled in the back of his throat, then dissolved, and he hurried to unscrew the cap atop the bottle with a sigh. “Fine, young sir, and then we’d best get to packing.”

*

“Look at this!” Tony giggled, rocking lightly on his heels as he studied the grainy image of him and Jarvis he was holding in his hand. It was him and Jarvis last Christmas, party hats atop their heads with faces like gargoyles. Jarvis was kneeled next to him, folding clothes into a suitcase. Looking over, he chuckled lightly. “Yes, I remember that photo. This one is my personal favourite.” The butler smiled, sitting still and pulling a small photo from his breast pocket, showing him holding a young toddler Tony in his arms while Tony had a bottle. Peering at it, Tony smiled softly. It… made him feel all warm inside. He reached toward it. “Can I take this with me?”

Jarvis looked slightly taken aback, but he nodded all the same. “Of course, young sir.” He folded the last item of clothing and hummed softly, patting the young teenager’s back in comfort. “I think that’s all the packing done, is there anything else you’d like help with?”

Tony tucked the photo into his own pocket and looked at Jarvis, holding his gaze for a moment as if to gauge whether he could trust him - although, Tony already knew in his heart that he could, of course. He sighed when he broke it and looked downward. “I… I’m going to miss you. I- I mean… I don’t want to leave.” He said, hating how his voice was so childish and unsure and wobbly. Jarvis cooed in sympathy, putting a comforting hand to his shoulder which Tony instinctively relaxed back into, every inch a cuddle junkie. “Tony, this will be just like school.” Jarvis insisted. “You will be back before you know it. You survived boarding, did you not?”

“No.. I- I mean..” Tony knuckled his damp eyes frustratedly, not wanting to cry any more than he had already. “I- it’s different. Boarding, and… all your clothes are washed, your food is cooked. Now I have to do… all of that by myself.” He explained. Child genius Tony Stark may have been, but cooking and cleaning and being a totally independent grown up wasn’t quite something in his reach just yet. Jarvis gave him another squeeze and - just for one long moment - Tony clung on, as if he was still that young child, young and small enough for Jarvis to hold in his arms and care for him. Oh how Tony wished, just for a moment, that Jarvis would whisk him away and look after him until he was eighteen and they could.. they could, ah, he didn’t know.. pretend he had been at MIT all that time. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been practicing, oh no, but making (and burning) lunch seemed a whole lot easier when Jarvis was behind him with a soothing word and the amazing ability to salvage any meal, or when he shrunk a t-shirt in the wash.  
“Your practicing has been going exceptionally well. You’re going to be just fine. Would you like to practice now, just to make sure?” Jarvis offered softly. Seeing Tony hesitate, he cupped his cheek. “I’ll stay with you, but I won’t help. I’m getting old. You need to teach me now.” He guided gently (mentally adding to himself that he’d step in if Tony was about to burn the house down) “Does that sound alright?”  
Tony still hesitated, and nibbled at his lip like a kit, but the promise of having Jarvis so close by was what finally coaxed him into nodding. A smile of comfort came to Jarvis’ features as he hurried the young sir along toward the kitchen.

They started with cooking. “Well,” Jarvis chirped, clapping his hands together. “Make my lunch, young sir. How about something simple, like a sandwich?”  
A look of disgust crossed Tony’s face, a look of disgust that Jarvis could quite easily decipher as, ‘I know how to make a goddamn sandwich, Jarvis,’ so the butler gave the teen a knowing gaze. “You know how I like it, sir. Grilled... bacon with a fried egg... tomatoes - grilled too - and some sausage. Lashings of brown sauce.”  
The colour suitably drained from Tony’s face at that point so, smiling wryly, Jarvis stepped from the kitchen and left the teenager to it. That had been a whole hour ago by this point, and Tony was currently sat staring stressfully at a frying pan as though he could magically fry bacon in it through sheer stress. His mind was whirring; shakily, Tony took a deep breath to try and clear his thoughts. Right.  
Melt butter in pan.  
Put bread in pan.  
(Both slices. Both sides.)  
Fry bacon.  
Grill sausage.  
Fry egg.  
That... was easy, right? All he had to do was... was just throw the sausage on the grill and fry the egg and the bacon. Perhaps he could fry them both at the same time? Nodding - child genius Tony Stark strikes again! - the teenager layered three thick rashers of back bacon (it was British and Jarvis liked it) into the pan and, shrugging, cracked an egg in alongside, putting it onto the hob. As the egg and the bacon began sizzling excitedly in the pan Tony let himself relax a little. Yes. This was easy. When he pressed a spatula against the bacon it spat softly, then seared... which sounded as though he was doing something right. Right...?  
...so he continued to move it in the pan with the egg. It.. looked fine, and was going just the way they’d practiced, so Tony stepped away for a second. The television was on in the living room and there was a show he wanted to watch playing in — he looked at the time — five minutes. Perhaps he could watch some of that while he waited…? As long as he got back here and— wait, wait - he forgot the sausages. Popping two out of their plastic-y skin, he slid them into a pan hurriedly and left them to cook the second he heard the sound of the skin spitting, skidding to his knees in front of the television.  
It… wasn’t anything special, the show he was watching… it was just Scooby Doo, but Jarvis had always let him watch an episode after his bath as a child as he dried off and wound down after a bath. Jarvis had an odd selection of tv shows that he let Tony watch after a bath, some of them slightly more British than American, but Scooby Doo was always young Tony’s favourite. He still liked to watch it even now when he got the chance, at 7pm on the dot, just after his bath… even if he didn’t tend to have a bath-and-bed routine that ended at 7:30 any more. 

He still got engrossed into the cartoon just as he did when he was little… until the beeping of the smoke alarm pulled him away from his fantasy world. His eyes widened as the choking scent of smoke filled his nose and jumped up, swearing under his breath. The kitchen had been filled with thick black smog; battling through it, the teenager searched for the oven to switch it off, wiping away the smoke… letting his hand crash down on the furnace-hot frying pan.  
“Ah! Fuck!” Tony squealed, dropping the pan instinctively when he touched the blisteringly hot handle, a sharp lightning bolt of heat coursing through his palm to his fingertips. The pan clattered to the floor with a loud clang and sent the bacon, burned to unrecognisable coal-like knubs, spattering over the floor. The egg, somehow uncooked, spurted on the floor alongside the bacon sending runny yolk in one direction and liquid-y white in the other, and all Tony could do was clutch his aching hand and watch in horror as the eggwhite dribbled in the lines between the tiles of the kitchen floor. This… didn’t quite go like how he and Jarvis had practiced. “Oh no,” Tony muttered in one breath, tears clouding over in his eyes as he darted for a kitchen towel then skid to his knees to clean, all the while praying that Jarvis didn’t walk in on the chaos. Unfortunately, life was not that cooperative, least of all when it came to something Tony wished for.

Jarvis had been alerted to the chaos in the kitchen through Tony’s squeal, never mind the pan clattering; it was enough to pull him away from the cleaning he was doing in the spare room. “Young sir?” He called with a frown of concern etched onto his features, moving to the kitchen. He pulled open the door; his eyes widened. “Young sir, what on Earth...?”  
The room was in a... less than clean state, to put it mildly; soapy egg white was running through the tiles, runny egg yolk had freckled the floor alongside, and in the midst of it all sat one young Tony Stark cowering over some kitchen towel that had been dipped in soapy water and had scrubbed the floor so much it was ragged. To top it all off Jarvis had to look at the scene unfolding through a film of grey-black smoke as - in his panic to clean the floor - Tony had neglected the sausages and they had burned to black ropes. 

Tony looked up at Jarvis.  
His lip quivered. His chin wobbled.  
He rose, and scrambled to put the charred meal onto a serving plate. “Bon appetit,” he choked

...and then burst into tears.

Jarvis laughed so hard it sent him into a coughing fit of near delirium. If it wasn’t for Tony’s hysterical tears, the whole situation would be hilarious. “Oh, my child,” He cooed joyously once he had heaved enough air into his lungs, pulling Tony close and stroking his hair lightly. In all honesty he hadn’t expected a reaction such as this - Tony had been less fond of an emotional outburst as he neared and landed in his teen years - but yet it came as no surprise all the same. With the security of Jarvis and home and his schooling under threat, it was little wonder that Tony was in tears over what on the face of it was a minor inconvenience. His emotions must have been all over the place.  
Tony - quivering - continued to wail. Jarvis could only decipher snippets of Tony’s tear coated rant; including the phrases, “Not good,” “M’ a failure” and “Hurt m’hand”. That last one made a concerned frown come to Jarvis’ face as he took Tony’s aching red hand and scrutinised it, seeing the thin blistered film now decorating the teenager’s palm. “Oh, Tony,” he said sympathetically, dabbing the injury with cool water and wrapping it in some kitchen towel before he could tend to it properly. “What am I going to do with you?”  
He squeezed Tony’s shoulder. “Let us go and tend to your hand. Do not worry about your sandwich. The bread looks salvageable. Besides, no one runs before they can walk and your other practices went exceptionally well. I’m sure your lunches at MIT will be perfectly fine.” He reassured softly, and continued reassuring Tony in exactly this way until the teenager’s crying reduced to soft unsure sniffles. He paused long enough to dab some antiseptic onto Tony’s wounds and then continued, day after day reassuring Tony with those soft sweet words until it really was time for Tony to head off away from the comfort of his home to MIT.

It was those same reassuring words that echoed in teenager Tony’s ears as he stood, intimidated, in front of his stove in his dorm at MIT. It was stupid, he knew, to be intimidated of a stove of all things, especially when he was a fucking genius… but he was. Well; it wasn’t the stove he was scared of, nor the getting hurt or potentially starving, but the failure. If there was one thing Tony Stark didn’t want to be, it was a failure. Not only would it be fucking humiliating, but it was something else his father could hold over him. As he leaned forward and turned the oven on, his father’s voice floated past his ears alongside the buzzing hum of the oven coming to life. You are a Stark. You will wear that name with pride. You will succeed in life with the Stark name and should you not, you are no son of mine.  
Tony swallowed thickly, forcing back his father’s intrusive voice as he started to chop up some vegetables. Slowly he found as he slid some chopped carrot and onion into a pan to blister that the voice dissolved and… and was replaced by Jarvis?  
You’re doing a great job, Tony. That looks like it’s going to be delicious. Well done!  
It… well, for a moment Tony felt as though he was imagining the voice, as though it was just in his head, like his father’s. Then Tony realised that it sounded a little too… close to be a voice that was just in his head. Frowning, the teenager put the spatula back into the pan and looked around slowly, anxiously. There was someone just in the very edge of his eyeline… brandishing the spatula, Tony frowned and whipped around, mouth open ready to yell aloud. 

There, standing patiently with his shoulders back and a stack of Tupperware boxes, was Jarvis. 

Tony’s mouth closed. He dropped the spatula sheepishly and stepped forward, as though Jarvis was a simulation that he could walk through. 

“Fabulous meal, young sir.” Jarvis nodded approvingly overlooking the veg bubbling in the pan, skin tanned. “Looks like it will be delicious.” He repeated

Realising that Jarvis really was standing in his dorm room, not just a simulation or a figment of his own imagination, Tony’s mouth opened again. Then closed. Then at long last the teenager darted forward and barrelled into Jarvis’ arms with a squealed, ‘you’re here!’ all but knocking the wind out of the butler’s lungs as he clung on. Jarvis had a wheeze to his voice as he spoke. “Yes, I am.” he squeezed out, wincing when his voice whistled. Sheepishly, the teenager darted away from the butler again in an attempt to let Jarvis breathe with a whispered, ‘sorry!’

Jarvis shook his head, palm on his chest as his breathing returned to normal. “No problem, young sir.” 

Tony looked him over protectively as if making sure he was okay before hesitantly continuing. “Why… why are you here?” He asked softly, eyes bright with pleasure. Jarvis was a welcome surprise but he was just that - a surprise - all the same. 

“I came to see how your cooking was coming along,” Jarvis explained, which… wasn’t quite a lie. Tony squinted at him all the same. “What are they..?” He asked unsurely, looking at the mush in the tupperware. It looked uncannily like baby food or some sort of puree. 

Jarvis smiled wryly, putting one Tupperware on the kitchen counter and unsnapping it to reveal some spaghetti and meatballs. “I thought you would like some help with cooking, so I prepared these for you.” He explained softly. “You can freeze them until you’d like to eat them. A lot of students do this while they are at university,” he reminded, which seemed to dissolve any ‘I’m such a failure’ thoughts that Tony’s brain was brewing.  
“I wrote down the recipes.” The butler continued, holding out some notecards covered in his thin scrawled handwriting. “So if you would like to make these by yourself, you can. I wouldn’t recommend leaving everything to go and watch Scooby Doo, though.” He teased, a grin intensifying on his features as Tony blushed.

“Thanks.” The teenager mumbled, giving Jarvis a sheepish squeeze.  
Suddenly, his time at MIT seemed a whole lot more… bearable. Not ideal, but bearable. That was good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter while I was on the ferry, on my way back from Disneyland Paris - that's why I've been inactive! I've written the last two chapters and will upload those soon. 
> 
> Still not sure on this one. The other two chapters are great but this one isn't my favourite.
> 
> I met Captain America! He's in my display picture. A better picture is the one up on my deviantART though, so if you know my @, go give it a squizz.


	6. eighteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he’s dead.

"He's dead."

Tony wasn't quite sure what made the sour punch of shock hit him as fast as it did; the fact that his father had said it so cold and emotionlessly, as though he were discussing last week's sports fixtures, or the fact that.. he, he was... 

"Jarvis. He's dead." Howard repeated awkwardly, searching for some sort of reaction in his son and upon finding none throwing his gaze to his feet. Tony's eyes misted, and he stumbled back as though he had been stabbed yet a choked, "Oh... okay." was all he said; something deep in him - something so deep it was knotted into every strand of his DNA - made him not cry, made him not grieve there and then for Jarvis, for the man who had single handedly reared him all these years.   
Because he was a Stark and Stark men were strong. 

"The funeral will be two weeks from now, shortly after Christmas." Howard continued, stone cold, spitting his words down at the polished points of his shoes rather than toward his young son. "I'm sure you will be able to correspond with MIT and postpone your studies for a day or so." He straightened out, pushed his shoulders back and stared straight through Tony's teary eyes, striding out of Tony's dorm room. Tony watched him go, his outline growing blurry, a sob catching in his throat when Howard was in the doorway between staying and leaving.   
"What... what did he die of?" Tony blurted, hand outstretched as though to pull his father back. 

Howard didn't turn to face Tony, turned only slightly to his left and cleared his throat. "Influenza." he replied quietly. "Ravaged his lungs."

The sour snake tongue of shock lashed venom in Tony's belly to the point where all he wanted to do was keel over and sob. "Oh. I'm so sorry." he whispered, voice remarkably restrained; although he wasn't quite sure what he was sorry for considering his father seemed not to care whether the butler lived or died. Perhaps it was the fact that Tony was disgracing the good, strong Stark name by bursting into blubbering sobs. Perhaps it was a plea for Jarvis and his family - if he even had a family - that would miraculously find its way to Jarvis' wife or his child or... or whoever he had, if there was anyone. Or perhaps it was simply a plea for Jarvis, if he was out there in the world, that Tony was so, so fucking sorry that he wasn't there when Jarvis departed - hell, didn't even know Jarvis was ill other than the barking cough he seemed to develop way back when Tony was fifteen.   
Tony managed to keep this incredibly thin veneer of misty, delicate snuffles up right until his father strode out of the room; at which point the young teenager shut the door behind his father and...   
and...  
well... he sort of... froze, numb and mute against the doorframe. Suddenly all the air in his lungs seemed to have been torn from him, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many heaving breaths he tried to choke in, no air came. He slid against the doorway and screamed, although nothing seemed to come out of his mouth other than white noise. Eventually, although Tony had lost all concept of time and as far as he was concerned he could have been crying for five seconds, five minutes, or five hours; his screams ebbed away to slightly-less hysterical sobs, by which point his throat was raw and red and raked sore with his crying... although his eyes had swollen and the tears sheeted down his cheeks hot and heavy. His nose ran, white droplets seeping on his Cupid's bow, and his chest pulsed with aches dragging themselves through him every time he did so much as take in a shuddering breath. Through his puffy teary eyes Tony recognised the bed, which made him come to his senses only slightly; he slid under the covers snivelling heavily, wrapped himself around that dog-eared teddybear that he had hidden not-so-cleverly from his father under the duvet, and sobbed forlornly until, exhausted, he caved into sleep. 

Eighteen.

Tony Stark was eighteen and he had never felt grief like this before, and was sure he never wanted to feel grief like this ever again. 

In fact, Tony was sure he never wanted to feel... anything ever again, to put it bluntly. He would wake every morning and be punctured with that same sour sting of grief that he had felt when Howard had first arrived to tell him the news, and it would make him want to sink into bed and do nothing other than cry into his teddybear like a five year old. He had taken to drinking, as it seemed to numb him against feeling anything, put up a barrier against any swirling thoughts of grief that dared intrude. A favourite of his was scotch, because it was rich and it stung hot and ticklish at the back of his throat and his nose, and so he would sink a couple until it pooled toasty in the pit of his stomach, and then a couple more when the feeling went away, and then a couple more after that. He got very used to a pounding in his head and vomit in his throat and a stumble in his walk very quickly; but sometimes, sometimes it just... it just wasn't enough, and Tony couldn't quite articulate why but it just... it just wasn't and so then he'd choke back anything and everything he had, or he'd stumble around to any of his flatmates or any neighboring parties just to sink something, anything, as long as it was alcoholic enough to deaden him to do anything but think rationally. Once he hit that sweet spot of... of numb, of nothing at all, then Tony crashed. He wasn't quite sure what he did when he was drinking so heavily, although hazy memories of sliding into bed with... with someone, a different girl every night, came to him every now and then. Christmas passed in a blur of pumpkin spice and pine needles; there was a pine needle wreath laid out on Jarvis' coffin. The scent of pine needles made Tony feel sick.  
Along with the wreath was a draped Union Jack.   
And a Candyland figurine.   
Green.   
Playing Candyland wasn't the same without Jarvis sat around the family dinner table; Christmas in general wasn't the same considering his parents weren't used to manning the mammoth responsibilities of breakfast dinner and dessert. It was as though Jarvis had gone and had sucked all of the Christmas magic with him, to the point where Tony was glad when it came close for him to prepare for his final year at MIT. 

One morning, Tony awoke - alone - and his mouth was desert-dry, sour around the edges with cheap cider bubbling against the back of his throat. He had drank heavily the night previous and so it took a moment for his brain to piece together what exactly he should've been doing... that was, sprinting to the bathroom. A heave rose from his throat bringing the cheap cider with it and so Tony staggered toward the toilet, vision blurring, as he just about managed to sink his head into the toilet before the contents of his stomach rose and splattered out of his mouth, so acidic they burned on the way up and the stench rose pungently in the tiny bathroom afterward. Jesus fucking Christ, Tony thought to himself as he dizzily lifted his head, never again was he blackmailing his neighbors into giving him the last of their cider. Not only did it have the consistency and taste of gnat's piss it was waging war on him on the way back up. He looked dizzily around the bathroom and whimpered to himself, pitifully, when his head pounded. God.. this was all too much. It... it reminded him of when he was a little boy, when he was ill with a fever and Jarvis was there to stroke his damp hair out of his face when he was sick and press cool towels to his forehead to dull the ache. If Tony imagined hard, he could still feel the sensation of the cool cloth heavy on his forehead dripping cold water right down the bridge of his nose. If he imagined even harder, Tony could visualise Jarvis, reaching out to help him. "Young sir," he heard, in that familiarly tender British accent, "What a mess you've gotten yourself into. Let's clean you up." Dream Jarvis leaned forward as though he was about to envelop Tony in a hug. Tony, backed away from the toilet now, reached forward needily as though Jarvis really was right there. He came into contact forehead-first with the bathroom floor instead and, defeated, sank prone against it. The cool clean tiles soothed the ache in his forehead and the itch of tears on his cheeks, but was nothing compared to Jarvis. Closing his eyes, Tony sobbed into the floor as though he was nothing but a pathetic baby. "Jarvis," he wept every now and then, as though Jarvis really was going to materialise in front of him. "Jarvis, I need you. Jarvis. Come back." he sobbed, "I can't do this by myself," he cried, staring at his puffy reflection in the mirror for only a second before he was overtaken by another heave and hurtled toward the toilet.   
He missed, the clear sour liquid seeping from his mouth and onto his t-shirt before he could get there in time. This was... well, Tony didn't quite know what it was, other than it reminded him of when he was six and suddenly he really did quite feel as though he was six and as though the task of removing his t-shirt, putting it in the washer, washing himself and re-dressing was much too mammoth for him to handle alone.

Then...

"Tony? Tony, are you alright in there...?"

Shit. Then there was a knock on the door and the voice that came to his ears was none other than Pepper Potts, the girl that lived in the dorm room just opposite his own. She and he had chatted a few times, and she was always there to let him sound off about his upcoming projects or his father or the fact that his flatmates were assholes. 

"Yeah," Tony mustered up all of his strength to choke the one word out, grimacing at the scratchiness of his throat. There was a pause, and for a moment Tony thought she had gone away, but then she piped up again. 

"I don't believe you, can I come in?"

Tony sighed at his reflection and shakily rose to his feet, going to the door. If she wasn't put off by his pathetically scratchy voice, she would most certainly run away once she saw his vomit-stained t-shirt. "Pepper, I'm fine," he murmured shakily, peering out of the door.

Pepper frowned, then her eyes widened, then she frowned again because Tony Stark was most certainly not fine. "Oh, Tony." she murmured. "What happened?"

"I'm not trusting you next time. That cider nearly killed me off." Tony muttered with a shaky laugh, rubbing his temple and gesturing to his t-shirt, with the oh so attractive vomit stains. "Hangover from hell."

Pepper took him in, but rather than run away like Tony had originally thought she gave him a sympathetic look and stepped inside (although her nose did wrinkle slightly at the stench that clung to him.) "No, what's really the matter?" she pressed, circling him slowly as if trying to work him out. They had been chatting a fair bit ever since Tony had landed at MIT and... Pepper just... felt as though she knew him inside and out. Well... Tony had told her a fair bit, anyway. The young woman folded her arms and squinted at Tony in an effort for him to open up, and he sighed and threw his gaze to the floor. "Jarvis. It's Jarvis. He's dead." he explained. He hated the way his voice came out all ugly and jelly-like as though he was about to start blubbing in front of her, but it was the first time he'd said it out loud. It... felt strange. Final. As if it was real now and by saying the words Tony had effectively offed him.   
"Oh, Tony." Pepper whispered sympathetically, reaching to give him a squeeze (which Tony very nearly melted into) only to pull back at the last second. He whimpered, actually fucking whimpered at the loss of contact. It had been so long since he'd been given a proper, bone crushing cuddle that he was rather craving one...   
"Do you need anything?" Pepper asked.   
Tony swallowed thickly, trying to stop himself from yelping, 'cuddle' at her as every fibre in his body yelled at him to. "I... could do with a hangover cure," he chuckled weakly, and she nodded. "I think you should wash up." she added gently with a squeeze of his arm before preparing to leave, and he nodded as though he was a disgraced child - numb, and more than a bit lost as if he didn't quite know what 'washing up' entailed.   
Pepper was about to leave, but something about the way Tony just stood there forlornly watching her made her reconsider. Twisting in place she faced him again, taking in the miserable empty look he had to him. "Do you need help..?" she asked delicately and carefully, giving him enough leeway to explode in her face and order her out and spout off about how he most certainly wasn't a child. Tony stared her down for what felt like a long, long moment, her words seeming to morph and twist in his ears and come out sounding a little too much like Jarvis, a little too comforting. "Yes," he found himself whispering. "I'd like that."

Pepper looked after Tony in a different way than Jarvis looked after Tony. Of course she did, for they were both eighteen and no one gave you a manual on how to look after an eighteen year old considering eighteen year olds mostly looked after themselves... although it was evident that Tony really wasn't at the moment. And so Pepper drew him a shower rather than a bath (with the reasoning that should he feel sick he could hop out quicker) with just the tiniest dribbling of bubble bath in the bottom. She instructed him to shed his clothes, which he did with only a little help with the button, and while he was stood under the spray of the water Pepper loaded his washer with his dirty clothes. "Where do you keep your pajamas, Tony?" she called, getting a reply of, "There's fresh ones under my pillow."  
Pulling the duvet and pillow back, Pepper came face to face with a very worn out looking teddy bear. She smiled at it, for it smiled at her, retrieved Tony's pajamas and went toward the bathroom armed with them, passing them effortlessly into the steamy room. 

"Meatball marinara, yeah?" she called, and with an answer in the affirmative the young woman stepped out to head to Subway. "I want you dressed and comfortable by the time I get back!" she called. Stern, but jokingly all the same; she didn't actually expect him to listen to her...   
Imagine her surprise when she returned to Tony's dorm room to find him tucked up into bed in his fresh pajamas, cuddled up under the duvet. "Hi, Tony," she cooed, and his eyes fluttered open. He sleepily sat up in his duvet cocoon, yawning softly to himself and reached both hands out for his sub. "Thanks." he mumbled, digging into the sub quietly, not realising that all of his shifting had pulled the duvet away from where he was hiding the teddybear he had been cuddling. "How much do I owe you?"

"Don't mention it." she shrugged easily, settling next to him with her own sub and beginning to nibble on it. The teddybear was just barely visible out of the corner of her eye... she smiled at it. "Nice teddybear." she commented softly, her tone jeering but very gentle. "I didn't have you down as someone who'd bring their childhood bear to university with them. S'okay, though. I did, too." 

Tony blushed, tugging the bear under the duvet. "Thanks." he whispered. "Not really mine. Jarvis gave him to me when I started boarding."

"Cute." Pepper agreed, nodding. "Does he have a name?"

Tony frowned at her, sideways, as though it was more than a bit weird for an eighteen year old to have a teddybear, never mind a teddybear that was named. "I don't know." he mumbled thoughtfully, looking down at the bear's furry ears. "I suppose Jarvis named him, but I didn't."

"That's not fair." Pepper countered softly. "I think he should have a name. All loved bears need a name. Mine's named Rosie." she said, shrugging. "Call him something sweet. Fluffy." she offered. 

"No." Tony thought a little longer, nibbling. "Doesn't fit. Billy. Like the founder of MIT?" he threw back. 

Pepper wrinkled her nose. "No." She thought about it, and her eyes settled on a little picture frame on Tony's desk, a picture frame with a man inside that Pepper had seen many times, never met but felt as though she knew all the same, never loved but knew he would have loved her just from the light in his eyes. "How about Jarvis?" she smiled, although she couldn't help but notice the post-it note pinned to the frame, 'project due 3 weeks. start project.' The number had been crossed out three times so far, from 6.

"Jarvis." Tony took the bear out hesitantly, squeezed it around the tummy and looked at its wonkily stitched smile. "Jarvis." he worked the name around his mouth, as if he was trying to work out if it fit. "Yeah." he smiled, slow then wide, nodded. "Yeah, I like it a lot."

Pepper beamed, giving Tony a light squeeze, and then Jarvis the bear. "Cool. Now it'll be like he's always with you. Also, you really should start your project."

Tony blushed a faint dusting of pink. "I know." he sighed. "I'll be fine. Thanks though. This really helped." He snuggled into his blanket for a moment. "And I really do owe you for the sub."

Pepper shrugged, standing. "Don't mention it, really." she waved it off. "I'm used to it, I mother my flatmates all the time." she chuckled softly. "Good luck on your project, hope the hangover eases. Come by if you need me. Buy me a sub in return someday." she smiled.   
Tony matched her smile, waving weakly before sinking back into his blanket cocoon. "Okay." he mumbled. "Bye, Pepper."

"Bye, Tony." she said. "Bye, Jarvis."  
It was weird for Tony to hear that name again, but for once he didn't mind. Giggling faintly, he made the bear's paw move in a slow waving motion and smiled to himself as he heard Pepper giggling softly as she moved down the hall. As the silence settled in over his dorm room, Tony looked toward his desk, then down at Jarvis. "I guess I really should work on that project."

To say that Tony hadn't started on the project was a bit of a lie; start on the project he had, it was just easing out the bugs and kinks that took up so much of his time. It was... a personal project he had been working on at home, and had pulled a few strings so he could submit it as his finalised project for his studies at MIT. Loading up his computer, the teenager settled at the desk with Jarvis the bear at the side of him, and calmly began to work. Once he got into the familiar motion of coding and testing and re-coding and re-testing he found it absorbed him much more than a drink or six did; pulling himself away from his work once his bladder started aching, Tony gasped at the time. 1am... already? And he felt as though he had just started working.   
"Holy shit, Jay." he told the bear as he jumped to his feet, shimmying his way to the toilet. "I've been working for ages."   
He continued talking to the bear even when he was preoccupied with pulling himself out of his sweats and settling in front of the toilet - not even the (crazy heavy) stream that appeared moments later deterred him. "I.. I think it's going to work out." he smiled thinly under the sound of the thick gushing - the first, papery real smile Tony had allowed himself to smile in ages.

Of course, it didn't always work out. There were times where a certain line of code just wouldn't configure, when he lost hours of work and had to do-over, or times where Tony simply spent longer and longer hours staring at the computer until his hands shook and his eyes ached. The longest he'd managed was a solid fifteen hours, by which point he had collapsed with a grunt against the computer desk using Jarvis the bear as a pillow. "Been working so long today..." he mumbled at the bear; only as he did so, the real Jarvis' voice floated into his ears.  
"Yes, young sir, you have. I think it's about time you got some rest."  
Tony was too tired to care that he was imagining it. He nodded with exhaustion, drooling slightly onto the bear as he slipped away into full slumber and stayed there.   
Other times, Jarvis would come to him earlier, just whenever he gave the bear a glance. "You should go to sleep, young sir, it's 11:30 and you have a 9am class."  
Sometimes, Tony simply groaned in response and shrugged him off. "You can't mother me." he would tell the bear, staring right down its long snout into its beady eyes. The rest of the time Tony would quietly comply and sink into bed with the bear under his arm. For Tony, the bear... the bear was Jarvis sometimes, Tony couldn't explain it, he just... he just was. Tony got very used to taking to his little ursine companion as though he were Jarvis, anyway. "The voice recognition on my A.I. project isn't working, Jay." he groaned one afternoon, crazed with staring into the same lines of code that he had been for the past two days.   
"Why don't you take a break, young sir?" "Jarvis" replied softly, voice as concerned as ever. "You clearly need it."  
Tony shrugged it off and scoffed, setting into an agitated silence once more as he mulled over the codes. After another fifteen minutes, "Jarvis" tried again. This time it was a simple, exasperated, "young sir..."  
"Jarvis, I told you." Tony hissed, twisting to face the bear, "I don't need a--"

Then there was a knock at the door. "Tony?"  
A different voice to Pepper. Tony baulked, vaulting Jarvis the bear headlong toward his bed and sighing with relief as it buried under his mountain of duvet. "Come in!" he shouted. 

It was Rhodey. "Hey, uh." the young man said, poking his head around the door. "Me and a couple of the guys are, uh, heading out for a few drinks, some pool. Coming?"

Tony hesitated at his unfinished work, bit his lip. Jarvis' words - bear he may be - echoed in his head. "Yeah. Sure." he relented, a slow grin coming to his face as he rose to his feet.

Jarvis didn't bother him for the rest of the night. Not that he would, of course, but it meant that Tony didn't feel so guilty about pulling an almost all-nighter (as he had tended to do recently) partly due to the calm of a night without having the bear remind him of Jarvis and thus having a running commentary all evening. He rolled up to his dorm room stumblingly drunk, though, and there he was. "Young sir, you're quite inebriated. Water and bed for you." Stark heard Jarvis comment, and scoffed drunkenly at it. "Whaddayakno." he told the bear, swatting it off of his computer desk - but not before, obediently, taking the last swig of a leftover bottle of water that had miraculously planted itself there. As he swatted the bear - and guiltily knelt down to scoop it back up again - he accidentally booted the computer into life and so into life it burst, throwing the codes Tony had been fussing over back onto the monitor for him to look over once more. Drunk, Tony almost didn't give them a second glance as he tutted and moved to press 'power down', but then something caught his eye.

Whether it was a stroke of drunk genius Tony didn't know, but he gasped and sank into the chair immediately. He... he knew. It suddenly all made sense. "Oh, Jarvis, I- I know it!" he gasped, starting to type quickly.

"Young sir, aren't you sure that can't wait until tomorrow morning?" he imagined Jarvis saying. No.   
No. He had to work. Shaking his head the young drunk genius began to type and test the latest lines of code. It ticked over to 3am before Tony was done, pressed save, and collapsed head-down against the desk with Jarvis the bear clasped in his arms for a cuddle. 

*

"Jarvis," Tony spoke in his loudest, clearest voice, trying to ignore the quiver. It was the next day, Tony had pulled himself awake as soon as he possibly could, aching to test his new AI. "It's me."  
He waited, looking to the ceiling for the voice to materialise... biting his lip with nervousness as the moments ticked on by. 

"Hello, sir," Jarvis said - the real Jarvis, not the bear, not really the butler, but close enough, with the same crisply clear British accent that Tony remembered so fondly from his childhood. The teenager let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding in, stumbling in relief. "Hi, hi, hi..." Tony burbled quickly, his eyes misting over with tears. "You're here, you're really here."

"I never left, sir." Jarvis said. It was a little clunky, a little too robotic at the moment - Tony needed to work on adding empathy into its codes - and honestly, the computer likely meant it literally... but the sentiment was there. It made Tony's eyes well with tears.   
"I never will leave you, sir." the AI reminded. "I will always be here."

Tony's eyes spilled over, happily now. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles and sniffled. "I know." he looked to the floor, where the bear lay, and picked it up - giving it a loving squeeze. "...Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and the last chapter are my favourites :-)  
> look, we have some new faces. how exciting!


	7. forty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forty. 
> 
> Tony Stark is forty and - Jesus fucking Christ - this is shameful, it really is.
> 
> But time heals wounds (just about, even if they re-open and sting every now and then) and sometimes, time gives you the hindsight that lost things are not so lost after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> messed with tony's age a wee bit - I think he's forty eight now? ish? we love a dad!   
> don't know why I picked forty. I just felt like it was nice and round. sorry. 
> 
> this is like, angst-be-gone. kind of. there are some tears, but things are... okay. also look at me with my first ever Tony Stark omo... even if it is just... a tease.

Forty.

Christ.

Tony Stark was forty, and this, all of this, was fucking shameful. 

God, he hadn’t even meant for it to happen in the first place. He wasn’t the tiny snivelling child he’d used to be... he’d just... had an unusually uncharacteristic lapse in judgment, that was all. Lapse in judgment like a child, the voice in the back of his mind niggled, but he took a swig of coffee (he felt... slightly too fragile for something alcoholic at present to the point where he’d decided to not even slug some into the coffee percolator) and proceeded to ignore it.

It had all started out this morning, when he was rushed out to a meeting slightly too early for his liking, and suited up before he had a decent chance to fully scrub his face, fully scrub his teeth, and fully drain the rather full tank. “No time, busy, meeting, new recruits,” Steve had told him (and ignored Tony’s protests of why exactly he had to go to a meeting about the new recruits when he knew who they were already) - but was scared into slinging a cup of hot coffee into Tony’s hand after a cursory glance at Tony’s ‘just woke up’ face, even though Tony protested he’d had one coffee already. Still, coffee was coffee and so he had downed the beverage quicker than he usually would have when his bladder was filling, but had handwaved it off with the reasoning that he had the rest of the afternoon to use the toilet and he could hold it until the hour long meeting was over, anyway.   
And as he sat there, shoulders pressed back, legs trembling ever so slightly as he pushed them closer together, his father’s words spat like venom in his ears. Stark men were strong. Yes. Stark men most certainly were strong, and they didn’t embarrass themselves (or their fathers) in public.

By the time the meeting was over, Tony’s legs were trembling a little more severely; and standing elicited a short grunt of pain at the achey flutter that emanated from somewhere within his lower regions when gravity hit.   
Christ. Bathroom, now. Tony turned quickly on his heels and walked as quickly as he could toward the exit, the map of the building already coming to his mind; there was a bathroom just two corridors away, if he wasn’t mistaken. Two corridors was pressing, but nothing too bad. He had jogged a little over a quarter of the journey when his Stark Phone buzzed and - like some freakish Pavlovian reaction - Tony’s heart sunk. Perhaps if he didn’t look at the screen, he wouldn’t be needed today...?  
Fuck. Tony gave the phone’s screen a cursory glance - and there it was, clear as day. SHIELD. Mission, now, downtown. Low level threat.   
Fuck.   
Tony glanced between the phone, and the corridors before him. Well, if it was a low level threat, then.. perhaps it’d be overwith sooner. But... the bathroom - he was so close, and—

“Tony, come on. Didn’t you get the memo?”

‘Oh, fuck off, Rogers’ is what Tony wants to say at this point in time, fuck off for waking me up so early, fuck off for giving me the extra goddamned coffee, fuck off with your smug ‘didn’t you get the memo’ tugging me away from a solid forty seconds of bliss. But he doesn’t, because they are supposed to be friends. Nevertheless, he sighs and twists in place. “Yes, I got the memo,” he says unusually patiently, hiding his irritation behind this thin layer of civility. “But can’t I just...” He glanced, almost longingly, down the hallway.   
He’s cut off - no, his words are practically eaten up - by the disappointed frown creeping in on Steve’s face. Why does he have to be the virtuous one, Tony asks himself and sighs, because Steve has already won and he hasn’t even said anything. “It’s a low threat mission,” Steve countered firmly, “Whatever you want to do can wait, we won’t be gone long.”

Tony sighed, exasperated, and shifted the position of his legs very slightly.   
A nod. “Fine, whatever. Don’t start lecturing me, you’ll sound like my father.” Although considering you’re his golden boy I’m not surprised, Tony added bitterly in his head.

That’s... quite a scary thought. 

The mission goes surprisingly well considering the presses in Tony’s bladder only seem to grow more indignant and intense the longer he ignores them. Flying in the suit was slightly more difficult than the billionaire first anticipated, the sensation dragging whine after hiss out from between his teeth as the piss in his ever-filling bladder seemed only to roll forward, and every instinct to grab himself has had to be starved off entirely because there was no way Stark was going to get caught holding himself like a five year old, not least in front of the team. As soon as he gets the signal to start winding down he brings himself lower to the ground before coming to a shaky standing position as though he’s a child just learning to walk for the first time. Upon landing another hiss squeezed out; Tony exhaled shakily and had to furiously fight the urge to bend himself in half… just about succeeding when the rest of his teammates appeared, smudged and battered but nowhere near close to the predicament Tony was in; although he still had to be satisfied with standing not-quite-straight, rigid with his jaw set, hands in fists at his sides, feet dug into the ground with the hope that nobody would pull him up on it. 

It… it was afterwards when everything started going south, and started with Clint offering to pilot.

“I’ll fly us home,” Clint volunteered, taking the first step toward the Quinjet; Steve, Nat, Bruce and Thor all follow before Tony can even muster up the strength. He took a step forward and an odd shiver twisted and shuddered it’s way down his spine, down his spine but yet through his bladder and through his bladder right through to the tip of his cock; forcing him to instinctively press between his legs. Holy shit. In that moment he grew closer and closer to gripping himself like a child, momentarily thrown back to that time when he was a young six year old in Howard’s office soaking his trousers helplessly. Fortunately - or unfortunately, Tony wasn’t too sure at that point - the suit is too restrictive, too… metal-on-metal for him to get a good grip. Gritting his teeth Tony walked toward the Quinjet, breathing slow and steady in time with the pulsing of his bladder. He settled in his designated spot with a grunt and without too much damage, although his filling bladder is ever-present as the warm liquid pools low inside him.   
The suit has a filter; the suit has a filter specifically for moments like this (because Tony really is cursing whoever decided not to include one, just one, blasted bathroom on the Jet) and Tony knows, every fibre of his body knows because almost instinctively a little hot pearl of wetness gathers at his tip but— but the filter’s still in the developmental stages in this particular model of the suit so— so he can’t, so he really would be out and out pissing himself then and… and he can’t, not with Howard’s words echoing in his head, because Stark men are strong and they are made of iron and he cannot, absolutely cannot, disgrace himself or his father like this. To resist even the slightest temptation, Tony lets his armour free; body sagging slightly without the restriction. His hands go immediately to the warm spot between his thighs and they stay there, squeezing, although Tony hoped it looked casual to his colleagues. He relaxed, and waited with anticipation for the rushing noise of the Jet’s engines firing… Come on, he willed, come on… just so he’s one step closer to home…

The engines sound eager, firing up steadily, noise growing louder and more intense… before they die out with a pathetic whistle. A frown knitted together on Tony’s face, a frown that was matched by the rest of the team. 

“Which one of you idiots forgot to refuel?” Clint snapped with a roll of his eyes, twisting in his chair in the cockpit to get a good look at the rest of the team. Suddenly, all eyes fell on Tony. Sensing this, he ducked somewhat. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck because he was the person responsible for refuelling yesterday and he was the person responsible for when the inevitable happened and he was pissing full throttle all over himself. “Sorry guys..” He muttered eventually, in a tone that was meek and… almost quite sorry for himself, really. 

Clint scoffed, then groaned. “Tony… You know we need the fuel reserves filled for missions. One of us is going to have to refuel now. Any volunteers?”

Nobody.

“Could just take the subway.” Nat shrugged, eyes narrowing instinctively as she took in Tony’s movements, but stayed tightlipped.   
Tony’s eyes widened and he sat stiffly, shaking his head. “No. No, we can’t do that. We have to refuel.” He insisted, sitting forward and tensing his legs, twisting them in toward one another. God no, they couldn’t take the subway. Sure, waiting for a refuel was hell enough - but it was only twenty minutes or so of hell at least. Waiting for a subway, navigating delays, and hitching a ride home was… hell in itself, without a bursting bladder to contend with. There was no way Tony could wait that long, to the point where he didn’t even want to attempt it.  
The rest of the group were stunned into silence at what was an unusual outburst for the billionaire. Clint squinted at Tony and what he said next made a cold finger of fear go down Tony’s spine. 

“You want to refuel so badly, you go and refuel.”

Tony’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened. Then he tried to form words, an excuse, something - anything - but nothing came out. “I- I..” _Can’t do it, can’t do it because I have to piss. God, you look like a five year old, you pathetic, fucked up useless—_ Tony mentally finished in his head. Toward the end of his train of thought he started hearing Howard and closed his eyes for a long moment, as if trying to bat him away. “Okay.” He muttered, brows knit together in concentration. He put his armour back on with a great degree of hesitancy - choking back a grunt as the metal pieces slammed across his stomach and strike a brutal slice of.. of need, radiating all across his lower stomach. Instinctively Tony dragged his knees in and squeezed, valiantly ignoring the warm dribble that drops into his boxers. He shakily stepped out of the Quinjet, legs trembling, and zoomed off. If flying during the mission was difficult, flying now that his bladder was filled to something… something more than just, ‘need’… is even more difficult. Even just the simple action of taking off dragged another hot spurt from him, one that cooled on his inner thighs while he was in flight. The only positive was the fact that he was alone, so if he wanted to moan or scream or curse Steve Rogers out he could do so in relative peace. ‘Relative’ because occasionally Jarvis (the A.I.) would quip in with a slightly concerned, ‘you look to be in pain, sir, I think you need to take a break,’ and all Tony could do was choke out a strained little laugh because look at him, Jarvis, immortalised from beyond the grave and yet still chivvying Tony off toward the toilet.   
Anyhow.   
By the time Tony returned to the Jet and slammed the fuel nozzle into the cap, he was… in agony. Standing still wasn’t an option at that point, for it would have encouraged him to piss himself silly there and then; and the suit was tight, too tight, squeezed flat against his swollen lower abdomen so that even breathing too much jarred his nethers. Thus, his breathing came slow and measured, fizzing out on the ends before it could send any jolts of pain forth. He jogged his legs in and out as a soft whimper - an actual goddamn whimper - fell past his lips, impatiently waiting for the tank to fill. Another wave rolled forward and Tony stumbled when it hit, a muttered, ‘shit!’ coming out of his mouth. Something—Tony knew perfectly well what it was, and refused to pay attention to it—rolled slick into his boxers.  
Fuck it. Fuck it all.   
That was more than enough fuel. Tony yanked the nozzle out again, slammed the cap shut — spent one long, long moment leaned over the jet, legs jammed in tight and trembling as he tried to ensure he had full control of himself. Eventually, he straightened up as much as possible and staggered back onto the jet. “Done.” He announced, stilling where he was and immediately yanking his armour off, exhaling with slow, shaky relief as the aches radiated away slightly — sighing all the more as the Jet took off on their journey home. 

There was no way in hell Tony was going to piss himself, no, he was going to get home and piss in the toilet as he should. And oh, did he try. He tapped his legs and pressed his hands into fists, he shifted forward and he shimmied back, he shifted and let long strings of expletives come from his mouth but… it just wasn’t enough. 

“Are you okay, Stark?” Steve murmured from where he was sat, eyeing the billionaire curiously. Stark had been behaving oddly all afternoon. They had discussed what it could possibly be in his absence, but no-one had come up with a viable explanation. Now, though, he looked a little worse for wear; rather restless, too. 

“Fine.” Tony said in as much of a breezy tone as he could muster, stepping on his toes. “Clint, how long until we’re home?”  
His voice was tight. Had an edge to it. 

“About twenty minutes, Tony.” Clint affirmed without turning around or bothering to ask why he was so eager. Tony took a deep breath. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes was… okay, it was fine. Do-able.

“Are you sure?”  
Steve was squinting now. No, there was definitely something… something more than restlessness. 

“Steve, I said I’m fine!” Tony snapped, all of his anger loading onto that last word. The sheer force of his yelling jolted him slightly, and a longer stream of pee trickled out and soaked the front of his boxers - one that grew longer and longer that no amount of squeezing could cut back. Tony shuddered, eyes wide with realisation, icy with fear.   
No.   
No.. he can’t have… he can’t..

“S- shit..” He choked to himself, a little too loudly considering the rest of his teammates were sitting close by. Tony felt as though he was on autopilot, as though he was dreaming, as though this was all some twisted nightmare that he’d wake up from if he cried hard enough. He staggered backwards in shock and then, feeling as though he was walking on a marshmallow, he sank to his knees. The dam burst upon impact and all Tony could do was lie still and piss himself silly, the warm hot wetness pooling around his crotch and streaming down his inner thighs before trickling onto the base of the Jet accompanied only by a rapid hissing noise.  
The rest of his teammates said nothing. Steve was the first to brave it, slowly rising to his feet and watching - mostly in disbelief - as a puddle began to spread thinly around Stark. “Tony…?” He asked, soft and concerned.

Then… then Tony did something that Steve wasn’t expecting. Something that the rest of the team wasn’t expecting; something that Tony himself likely wouldn’t have expected.   
He sobbed. He sobbed an ugly sob and snivelled as his nose started to run. Steve stepped closer. “Tony, hey..” He repeated, eyes wide. 

Tony looked up at Steve. He looked… pathetic, was Steve’s first observation. His face was puffy and his eyes were beginning to grow red, his nose was running all over his lips. Tony, on the other hand, recoiled. This… this was just like when he was a kid… the second freakish Pavlovian response of the day had him at the grand old age of forty thrown right back to being a five year old in his father’s study; as if by magic, Steve’s face seemed to twist into an ugly caricature of his father, standing and frowning severely at him. “M’ m’sorry,” Tony blubbered fearfully, trembling fiercely, “M’sorry— didn’t mean to— know ‘m bad, please don’t be mad at me please Papa,” he burbled, tears streaming down his cheeks - before he started to fully howl and hung his head, pulling his hands over his head to shield himself.

Steve was still. Stunned. “Tony..” He began hesitantly, kneeling down to become level with his teammate as he was too used to doing whenever he saw children - it was instinctive behaviour at this point. “Tony… you’re okay. Your father isn’t here.” He said, soft and slow. Tony looked over, glossy-eyed, and slowly the caricature of Howard began to dissipate. “We’ll be home soon. I think you should shower and take it easy for the evening, alright?” He explained. This was Tony Stark he was speaking to, ‘taking it easy’ wasn’t in his repertoire, but considering the… whatever had just happened, Steve really thought Tony needed a rest. Tony said nothing, but Steve allowed the silence to grow comfortable, and was the first person to lead Tony off of the Jet once they returned to the Tower. “Not a word of this to anyone.” Steve hissed to a rather shellshocked Nat, Bruce, Clint and Thor, trotting inside as they nodded in unison.

Steve led Tony to Tony’s private quarters and then left him alone; by which point the fuzziness was leaving Tony’s head and all he had to show for it were some denim jeans heavy with pee, and itchy thighs. Shedding his clothes, he asked Jarvis to set the shower temperature for him, and stepped in. The water beat in thick hot droplets down his spine as he hung his head and had a fifteen minute shower that mostly consisted of him berating himself; Howard’s voice continued to fill his ears with venom all the while and... Christ, he missed Jarvis. If he did that... that weird Pavlovian thing again, he would be thrown back to when he was five and Jarvis was always there with a warm towel, a fresh change of clothes, and a soothing word. The pain was much less now, just a kind of... dull lonely ache, but still it hurt, still it drove tears to his eyes. He stepped out of the shower and squeezed his toes deep into the fluffy towel, jaw setting as he looked toward the hallway... and suddenly, it all became clear to him. He knew what he had to do.

“Jarvis,”  
Tony’s voice was unusually hesitant, trembling a little, as he shut and locked the workshop door. The A.I. responded quickly with a “Yes, Sir?” that, despite being an A.I. and lacking that emotion the original Jarvis had, still seemed somewhat warm.

“Lock down this room.” Tony murmured. The A.I. took a moment, as though he were blinking in confusion. “You’ve locked it already, Sir.”

“Good.” Tony breathed slowly. He ran a hand over his temple and moved toward his workshop desk, pulling open the deepest drawer on the bottom right. He held his breath as though it wasn’t going to be in there, as if it had obliterated into thin air... and smiled when it was, pulling it out by its furry shoulders and burying his face into the familiar chestnut fur. “Hello,” he told the bear, even though he was perfectly aware that it couldn’t speak back and all he gained was a mouthful of decades old pipe smoke and matted fur. For a moment he submitted totally, face buried as he squeezed the bear so tight he was sure he’d pop a seam. Before his head could get too... swimmy he pulled away, and tilted his head. “Jarvis, activate the Rocking Chair protocol, please.” He whispered.

The A.I. seemed to hesitate again. “Sir, this will modify my abilities for up to ninety minutes and you will have limited capabilities. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Tony said tiredly, “Do it.”

“Very well.” The room fell into silence for a moment, and when Jarvis’ voice illuminated it once more, the tones were much softer and sweeter, much more like the Jarvis tiny Tony knew and oh how did it warm his heart. “Hello, little sir. I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”

“S’okay.” Tony whispered, cuddling the teddy bear quietly. He almost sounded tearful, but not quite. “Jarvis,” he piped up after a moment of thinking, “I... I had an accident today.” His voice sounded much younger now as that swimmy feeling crept in, and Tony embraced the sensation. “Papa was there and then he wasn’t, then it was Steve.”

“That is no good, young Sir, did you hold it for too long?”

Tony nodded, ducking when tears of shame sprang to his eyes. “Steve’s fault. He made me go to a stupid meeting and then when I tried to potty he said no because it was time for a mission and then Clint told me to refuel because I forgotted yesterday and I did and then... then all my pee came out and Papa was there.” He blurted out in a rush, wiping his eyes with the paws of the bear. 

“Maybe you need to start saying NO,” Jarvis advised elegantly, making Tony giggle as he boomed on the word No, “just like you do when I tell you it is time for bed... or for the toilet, or for vegetables, or for a drink that isn’t too grown up for you.”

Tony giggled, faintly hysterically, “I wanted to say a very rude word to Steve,” he admitted with another giggle, this one sheepish. “I wanted to say f—“

“None of that language please young Sir!” Jarvis thundered sternly, and Tony was quiet, mumbling a meek sorry, although he hid a smile in his bear’s fur. Jarvis was quiet for a few moments after this, allowing for Tony to recollect himself and speak when he was ready. Sure enough he did. “Why did Papa... Why was Papa there?” Tony asked with a whimper and a frown, confused. It was something that puzzled big Tony just as it did his little self; something that even the AI had trouble explaining away, in fact. “I should imagine...” he began to explain simply after consulting the font of all knowledge, Google, “that he came back because you were scared, just like you were when you were five.”

Tony chewed on this information for a moment, but as a little it had no effect on him. He buried his face into his teddy bear again and sniffled. “That’s not fair. I wish you were here, Jarvis.”   
He sounded pitiful. It... it was pitiful, in fact; even as a regressed child Tony struggled with that... disconnect. AI-Jarvis held the same warmth and said the same things in the same prim British accent that real Jarvis did, but he was... nothing physical, nothing warm or loving. 

“I will always be with you, whenever you activate this protocol, little sir.” Jarvis said softly, projecting some ever so slightly grainy footage of the British butler overhead. Tony looked up, and a weak smile came over his face as he saw Jarvis - real Jarvis, the Jarvis he loved so much - move slowly around his father’s study with a young, five year old Tony nestled to his hip. The memory felt so… so real, as though it had happened yesterday, and Tony reached out toward the projection, hands splaying. “Jarvis..” He whispered, as though the long-deceased butler could climb out of the projection and scoop him up just like that. Sniffing, Tony collapsed into the chair at the desk. He kicked off his shoes and socks and clutched his bear tightly to his chest before curling up in the chair awkwardly. He didn’t quite fit, arms and legs poking akimbo all over, but with a little folding he managed to sit in the chair on his side, knees tucked up, bear nuzzled under his chin. It… was peaceful. Slowly, Tony’s thumb pressed against his lips, then the thumb-tip breached them… and then he was fully suckling. Thumb sucking and pacifiers were something else Howard liked to control, so Tony rarely did or had any as a young child, so.. it was nice to indulge; sent him off into a different sort of orbit. His blinks grew sleepy and slow as he watched the footage of Jarvis playing calmly on a loop, letting the room drift into a comfortable silence. 

“Would you like me to tell you a story, little sir?” Jarvis asked softly. Tony hesitated and frowned as those uncomfortable grown-up thoughts drifted to the forefront of his mind again, the kind that always bubbled under the surface whenever he did… this, and threatened to pull him out of it. It… wouldn’t be a real story… it would just be something copied and pasted from Google, and blurted out by Jarvis’ emotionless voice, devoid of love and warmth or at least the love and warmth Tony knew. It was a sweet gesture, but… nothing close to what he wanted. Still, his little side persisted - and won. He nodded softly and pressed his thumb a little further into his mouth, nodding as he braced himself for the inevitable…

_“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh...”_

…and then Tony stilled for a moment, and he smiled around his damp thumb as the grainy British accent swooned out over the speakers, taking him by the hand and leading him deep into the Hundred Acre Wood. His big self wants to jump up and squeal and say, ‘where did you even get this footage, Jarvis!’, and for a moment, so does his little self. But he is sleepy, and Jarvis’ voice is slow and calm like a magic potion, and it is lulling his eyes to close so they close and he drifts off to sleep drooling around his thumb and his teddy to the gentle narration of Winnie the Pooh. 

When he wakes up again the story is finished, his teddy is forlornly abandoned on the floor, his spine radiates with pain… and for a moment Tony is sucker-punched with shame, all sour and snake-tongued right into his tummy because— because— 

Because Christ, he’s _forty_ , and all of… this… is shameful, it really is… but for the next moment Tony is happy to accept it, because to hell with his shame, it feels… good.   
Loved. Tony feels loved and safe, and that’s more than he could ever ask for now that the world is still reeling in the wake of Loki’s aftermath. As he drifts and out of littlespace sat cramped in his chair the vague sound of Steve working a punchbag comes to his attention, and Clint with his arrows and Thor’s loud raucous laughter as he recounts some unbelievable tale fresh from his daily visits to Asgard overseeing Loki’s punishment. 

He could go and join them.

Or, he could lie here for a moment longer in the quiet. 

“Jarvis,” he mumbles sleepily, thumb back in his mouth, mustering up as many shreds of his big self as he can just to get his words out and lift Jarvis Bear from the floor. “Rocking Chair protocol. Story.”  
He doesn’t even say please, but Jarvis complies, and Winnie the Pooh continues as Tony sucks his thumb and lays still. Oh, he’ll regret this at some point, regret it all and wash it away with a whiskey on the rocks that’ll sting his throat and bring to mind Jarvis scolding him, but for now?

To hell with that. 

He has stories to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do I feel like I've set myself up to keep on going with this until tony's got a whole secret ab/dl life going on in which he gets found out by the others one by one and they slowly help him out?  
> who knows. perhaps in the future I will. but for now this is all you get. 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this, even just a little. If you have, feel free to tell me because sometimes I look back at everything I've ever written and hate myself and start comparing myself to others and ughhhh.  
> Alas. I most certainly enjoyed writing it. keep an eye out for me. I will be back. x


End file.
